Four Eggs

A poem

I took out.

Examined them
Closely, betwixt 
The fingers &
Felt relieved.

Their fate doesn’t
Lie on the edge of
An iron pan.

They won’t be 
Ceramic-welcome
In the fancy bowl.

They’ll simmer &
Boil in a teeny
Overused pot–black.

Then Cracked &
Out of their shells–
AWAY WITH THE YOKES.

They did that to me &
I did that to them. We
Did that to each other.