Eggs
It’s a habit of mine to pause a beat
to dwell on the egg, the very essence
of ovum, before I crack one, ker-whack,
on the yawning lip of the black skillet,
broken promise of shell a favorite
metaphor of poets, embryonic
and otherwise, pop and sizzle sunrise
of yolk a buttery shorthand for brains
hopelessly scrambled, fated for plating.
East Egg or West Egg? The courtesy bay
glitters in the moonlight while I huddle
with the rest, slumped in thin tuxedos, eggs
balanced just so on shifting feet, poaching
ourselves advantageous angles, the light
on Daisy’s dock green as Seuss’s vile eggs.
No comments:
Post a Comment