THE EGG

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