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Sep 2016
Eggs

It’s a habit of mine to pause a beat
to dwell on the egg, the essence
of ****, before I crack one ker-whack

on the yawning lip of the cast iron 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 as 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.
Dave Hardin
Written by
Dave Hardin  Michigan
(Michigan)   
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