poetic breakfast

I had a sandwich of omelette and brie,
and thought "What a nice way to start
a poem?" There wasn't much in it,
just butter and bread and eggs
whisked with cream, then fillings
dumped in, folded over:
some rhyme, but not much.
Certain words - some chosen
for texture, some pungency -
and tarragon, salt
and two small birds.
And a murder - implied,
just to shock, you see.
I really don't know
what the omelette contained.
It seems to have been
mostly for effect. It
never existed, except
as a start with a fit
in one's mind one could take
either way, to get: a poem!
Or else, to the kitchen to get
busy cutting, and breaking
some eggs.

But there weren't any eggs.
So a poem it is. I'm pretty darn
hungry, still. There is toast

and coffee, although
it is mostly dregs.