Serve My Eggs Dry, Please
Scramble me matte
paint over a shell
broker it on account
of the laying hens
coffee perks too late
the co-op that isn’t
wedge me tight
against blue flames
flail a shallow pan
murmur low songs
of love beleaguered
by need by clocks
driven out doorways
guarded by sharp teeth
scatter the remains
in a warm compote
pile on the detritus
burrow deep, a worm
hides from robin
turns trash to gold
* * *
A sound/food “poem” prompted by “sTucK” at Big Tent Poetry. But oh so loosely. Because I don’t like loose eggs. Whether scrambled, fried, poached, or hard or soft-boiled. But I do like my compost pile in any form.
Other stuck poems to be found here.
