The Egg

i don't like eating eggs, but they're surprisingly good poetry fodder

treat me as a Newborn:

within, I am scrambled,

and ready for

the boiling bath that will

cook, clean, cauterize me to

Rubbery perfection,

webby cracks playing along my thin shell.

Do not be deceived: my skin may be

rippable, tearable, but nothing will

come out unless you try your best.

Whether I have something within or not

is of no consequence. Why

would you exert your prowess on me,

when I am so fragile, so breakable, and

when your fingers will be made so filthy?

Author's Note

what do you think of the imagery/metaphor?

Reviews

[Frieda P]

This cracked me up, no pun intended, my first poem I've read on the subject of eggs me thinks, highly entertaining. "Why would you exert your prowess on me'> I'll be thinking of that line every time I eat an egg now!