Bread with pouched egg

Measuring water is like wishing for rain
in the middle of July with bruised shin-skin
and the kitchen walls smelling like coffee,
and yawns hold my checks up; thick brown-black-red
bangs keep eyelashes covered, and it's waiting
for the boil that the internal ticking mechanism
of self defense tracks itself inside like muddy footprints
left by the door, slowly melting into the carpet
that was once off-white, if anything.

When the egg is done cooking you must gently
scrap the skin making sure that it is hard enough
to let the bread support it - before you touch me, it's
best if you do the same.