10 minute spill

I've got no eggs in my basket
and the whir of the machine obscures
those voices which might answer mine.

If your pink tongue could catch the dribbles
of plum sweetness before they fell,
and lick them away, it is certainly quicker than mine is.

Standing, toes pressed against an invisible wall,
cliff edge, clouds jeering at gravity to break my fall.
What goes down must come up eventually.