Sometimes There’s a Golden Egg

Sometimes I write a poem that feels unfinished. Maybe it’s just a crappy poem. Still, I like this one. It says what I was trying to say. I wonder if all poets feel that way about some poems they release to the public, that maybe they’re good even  though something deep down says, maybe not.


The refrigerator’s continuous complaininggolden egg
groaning a single note, minute upon minute
wanting, demanding, more cold, more ice
like the heart of a philanderer
keeping all around aware
of its existence.

I dreamt of you, I did
with your arm elbow deep
up and into a cow’s stomach
You saying, “I think so…”
and pulling a bright golden egg
into existence.

strangely the cow’s breath seemed cold
smelling of broccoli and tuna salad.
you see I was so incredibly tired
I must have been asleep already
when I took out the cold water
unaware of existence.

Cracking open the shining egg
the gold oozed away into a bowl
with a layer of mayonnaise and dill
so that now I was hungry
not for your lips or touch
but for my very existence.

for some reason the fridge
was coolly open and waiting
tuna salad, broccoli, Swiss cheese
no, no, no! Ice cream’s calling
French vanilla with whipped cream
testing existence.

so now I wonder,
why the golden egg?

Sometimes There’s a Golden Egg

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