The boiled egg in the sink
badly peeled
like a pock-marked face
of a plague survivor
sitting rejected
stinking and alone
gazing at the tyrant drain.
A casualty of morning clumsiness
cracked and broken
bits of membrane clinging stubbornly
refusing to let go.
I look at the sullen shriveled white orb
this sad misshapen thing
a small failure
in a thread of larger ones.
It stinks like disappointment
a reminder that even the simplest tasks
can go awry
and that even the Creator’s perfect creation
isn’t fit for human consumption.
It’s just an egg
for God’s sake
but it feels like more
a symbol of the dreadful day already slipping away
of the small defeats that pile up
until they’re too heavy to carry out of the kitchen.
I turn on the tap
water rushing over
a partially premature oozing yolk
trying to wash away the sin
my shame
my guilt.
But the stink remains
the stubborn clinging of fragmented shell
a witness to imperfection
my evils
my failures.
The sink a stage for this tiny tragedy
reflects back the harsh light
of morning’s unforgiving glare
and I can’t help but laugh
a bitter chuckle in the quiet kitchen.
The egg lies on its aluminum slab
alone and beaten
a monument to all the things that go wrong
the utter failure of man’s plan for the universe
and God’s turning away in grief and despair.
I leave the corpse
in the sink
and walk away
a man parboiled in his own mind
and ready for fast food
in the Land of Nod.
art and poetry by Richard Gordon Zyne