Egg City Blues

eggs

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four million eggs were poached in the city today.
Four million eggs poached and six million eggs prepped in other ways:
two million eggs scrambled,
two million boiled
two million deviled, steamed, coated in oil.
Eggs in the city! Eggs in the city!

Today we eat eggs with friends.
We eat eggs on the subway.
We eat eggs in our PJs.
We eat eggs while sending text messages,
egg yolk dribbling messily onto our phones.
Imperfect eggs are crushed beneath our Jimmy Choos!
Lack of eggs is not an issue, not in our city, not today.

A couple of kids throw eggs at the door of Old Man Joe.
A couple of lovers dip toes in eggs like soldiers
then lick each other’s toes.
Egg tasted. Eggs wasted.
Eggs devoured.
Do cracked eggshells expose egg power? Yes, it’s true.
But lack of eggs is not an issue, not in our city, not today.

“What’s beneath the egg?” people forget to ask us.
“What’s beneath the egg? What’s beneath the egg?”
Some days bodies are poached in the city,
bodies mangled and twisted,
scrambled and boiled like eggs, like eggs.

Some days there are eggshells without eggs.
“Don’t tread on the eggshells if you want to keep your legs!”
they tell the children.
Behold the Egg City inferno:
Abandon all yolk, ye who enter here!

Some days eggs disappear like props in a conjuror’s trick,
and on other days The Age of the Egg seems mythic.
But not today.
Today we enjoy eggs in the city,
eggs poached, scrambled and coated in oil.

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