Oh yes, breakfast surely is a festival of joyous consumption,
of treats dairy, meat, vegetable and grease,
fried slices of toast drip with
globules as it squishes between teeth,
while sausage sizzles in clumps of
baked bean sauce, hot and steamy that
traditional meal pops in colour and taste and invites
all to devour.

Though in that kitchen, underneath a counter
so clean as to be plate,
a lone dish covered in cobweb and mould,
forced to the back of a dusty shelf, lays.
Containing misshapen egg shell, yolk
and albumen, it attracts glare after glare
from chefs ashamed
while servers complacent scurry past,
ignorant.

Some newbies spot it, during bustling shift,
making waves about apprehending,
scrubbing dish till it sheens,
seeing menu repopulate,
but the breezy swift kitchen, that well oiled
machine would be in disarray, moving
that load bearing metal,
shutting down cooker and fan, to rescue
one lone piece of crockery.

Some state the necessity, the need for
total hygiene, while chefs continue contented
for their kitchen never suffers
and the food never wavers.
These disgusted few throw in their towels,
their aprons, their name tags,
clamouring for a better workspace,
striding through door, for some unknown
bar and grill.