Eggs of Intellect

 

~ Eggs of Intellect ~

 

 

A grinding, tapping,

Of a foot plethora, rainbow of reds and maroons,

While yet, I sit here, unable to digest,

The lazy silence,

Of these people whom I don’t understand,

For they place their hands,

On their still wet, sodden with sweat,

Faces, doused this morning-

With aftershave,

Scratching their heads lazily,

Often wondering yet not,

Truly understanding their problems,

As sweat runs down their plastered foreheads,

As though eggs, splattering with heat their nuances. . .

Funny, hilarious fallacies of some thinkers,

Who left a spot of cream, this morning . . .

Tapping their feet, paid merely on credit, wager,

Pretty maroons and egg-plastered, odd faces . . .

And I sit here, wondering, truly,

How it is possible,

That these silly lads, and self-appointed ladies,

Came to this tiny café . . .

Together . . .

Doesn’t make much sense really . . .

For who are they trying to impress?

Each other?

’Tis my guess.