Make it a double.

The second egg rolled across my kitchen table
in a curved path dictated by its asymmetrical shape
finally stopping in a groove between two tiles.
I picked it up and returned it to the blue cardboard carton.
Half the cholesterol if I only have one, I thought to myself.
Besides, the bagel I'll put it on will be filling.

I held the remaining egg in my left hand and cracked
it over a bowl with a fork held in my right-- I've never
even tried to master the edge-of-the-bowl technique
for fear of messy failures during the learning process.
Carefully, I dumped the contents into the ceramic receptacle
below it and shook my head at the ironic affair:
there, like a yellow reminder in futility, floated a nice double yolk--
the first one encountered in years, dozens and dozens of eggs.

I scrambled it vigorously, forgetting the milk.
My left eyelid spasmed for three seconds
as it had been doing incessantly since I woke up.
Some mornings of this seven-month sabbatical
I wonder why I bother trying to control anything more
than my immediate appendages. We've all got to go sometime
clogged arteries or not. Use the second egg next time.


Currently reading:
"The Road" by Cormac McCarthy.