Saturday, September 25, 2010

Shell Game

Shell Game

Eggshells - viscous yucky shards
a mess, better left unbroken;
walk softly, whisper, agree
to be agreeable
breakfasting on soggy cereal or
just a cuppa
smiling lamely through the
livelong day
"Please don't let me be a burden.
Please, allow me, walk upon my
crooked spinal stairway while
I carry your parcels
in my cracked, bleeding teeth."
Eggshells breaking monthly
inside my womb
But we don't speak of that.
Not polite.  Not politic.
Like religion and horse races --
squandering addictions
'cause we're alright, ya know.
We've nothing to complain of.
Got our daily cakes and tea,
obeisance to the Queen,
jolly good, jelly roll.
On Easter, in the blessing of the Spring,
we paint sweet pastels
gently upon hard-boiled shells,
promising to be good little lambs.
The crust of the Earth,
protecting primeval fire and
gemstones,
seed of the Sun
baring a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy
part of this complete breakfast
rounded with an omelet
for growth and repair.

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