I almost end a life
with my foot
there in the gravel.
The smoke's got me
at ease, my mother's
voice distracted
but I notice the blue oval
right before my boot comes down.
There are no trees
within stone's throw
and the roofline's got no nests
so this windblown robin's egg
will not return to nature.
It's cold to touch already
so I'm guessing it's too late
but I stow it in my pocket
while we end our conversation.
The sorry sack of nerves I am
I take the thing inside.
Some socks within a pot
simulate an incubator.
I turn the bathroom heater on
and leave the manmade nest.
It's doomed to never hatch
if it didn't die in transit.
The sunny side is that
the scrambled chick
was over easy.
It'll wind up on my dresser
with the rest of the sad trinkets--
the reminders that what comes
must go
and all the in-betweens.
Someday someone
who
thinks she knows
a shred about her lover
will pick that silly shell up
and ask him what it means.
Currently reading:
"American Sniper" by Chris Kyle.
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