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.
