Poem #10

Whisking up the northern line,

An egg in every seat;

I’d like to crack their stippled shells

To get at that white meat.

 

Whisking up the northern line,

An egg has cracked itself;

The kind of egg my mother has

Me put back on the shelf.

 

Whisking up the northern line,

One clucks into its phone;

This egg will make bad omelettes

And underglaze a scone.

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