Wine With eggs

Wine With Eggs

Being myself an egg

and in the latter years

some kind of dove.

I pick at the blood

under my fingernails.

Stopping just short

of selling out,

pretending not to notice

all the God damn holes

in the wall.

Beating my wings

at the at the future accelerated,

and I have time

for a very small cup of coffee.

Never trusting

the def and the dumb;

but the crazy,

is what butters the bread.

And that's why I find myself

sitting in a bucket of milk.

Sipping red wine.

Reviews

[Misery]

(Q.) What is the difference between reality and fiction?
(A.) Fiction has to make sense.
Your soulful poem is so bewildering that it must be based on reality. Dear Abigale, I hope the milk spoils long before you ever do.