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.




What a surprising and arresting meditation!
Oh my goodness! Those last few lines. How extraordinary. I may have to steal of that eggy goodness!