051217

Putting old eggs out to pasture

Eh, what? HD asked,

trumpet stuck in ear;

he seemed bewildered,

as if imagining

toast, crisp rashers,

bygone beauties on the side,

sunny sides up,

draperies glistening

in the morning sun.

He's off his game, Benedict

whispered—then slipped

back into his shell.

We have safe places

set aside to effectuate

our absolution,

or so I believe,

slapping buttermilk disks

griddle-ward,

refracturing the Royal fast.

This must be some kind of mis-

began the soft-boiled prevarication

-communication, your lingo

c a b e

s r m l d

came the reply,

too easy,

over the good-egg

network. It's down

to this:

HD's insurance ran out

just when doctors were about to try

a revolutionary

new glue.

Star*line, 2011

The Egg Show

The Egg Show

A couple of scantily clad yolks wobbled alarmingly

along a high wire no bigger than a thread,

then dove from the top of a tall ladder

into a tin cup hardly bigger than a thimble,

the Ringmaster egging them on all the while.

A huge mass of albumin,

shaped into the semblance of

Washington Crossing the Delaware,

stood on one leg while leathery

oblong snake eggs did wriggling flips off its back

and through a hoop of fire,

the heat changing the gender of their contents

with every pass.

The hucksters were selling pickled quail eggs,

good for 1000 years,

gaily painted blown eggs with cunning dioramas

depicting famous Easter-egg hunts of history,

and giant eggshell boats (probably ostrich)

full of jelly eggs and chocolate.

And of course Humpty Dumpty,

no fool he, didn't mess around with

any brick walls, but jumped over a smoking

frying pan of hot bacon

grease.

The end

Prev. published

The Egg Show (chapbook, 2005)