Conundrum of Eggshells
There are days
when the eggshell cracks symmetrical
or close enough
with a little tap
and a little pull
and it all comes out as it was intended.
There are days
when a half dozen tiny triangles of shell
peel off from the edges
and fall into the bowl.
The yolk cracks and smears and blurs
as it slides from the shell,
hiding the triangles from view.
You know they're in there
but not how many.
You see them
for a glimmering second
probe a finger into the bowl
and they swirl away.
And then
what do you do
with a bowl of mostly egg
and one or more
invisible chunks of shell.
Your gut says
cook it
promises you will never even notice.
Cook it.
Cook it.
You worry you'll find one the hard way.
Cook it.
It will pierce the roof of your mouth
when you least expect it.
Cook it.
Heat the fry pan.
This is the moment of decision.
You could probably run it all through a colander
A strainer of some kind
It's probably not even in there.
But then you'd have to do the extra dishes
And you hate dishes.And the frying pan is sizzling
like a dare.
And you cook the thing.
And you take the first bite of warm egg
and it's fine.
So you take the second bite
and it really
really isn't.
Eating the Paste
There was that kid
in kindergarten
who always ate the paste.
Always nibbling chunks away
from the oversized tongue depressor
in the plastic jar.
He always got his attention,
chomping away
keeping careful watch
out of the corners of his eyes
to see who was looking
who would notice
who would tattletale to the teacher.
He always denied it
with a victorious grin.
Days like this
I get the urge to do
something out of the ordinary
to see if anyone will notice.
Leave a trail of breadcrumbs
obnoxious enough
that everyone will know I did it
without having seen.
Days like this
you need a little victory.
I'm going to eat the paste today.
I'm going to scream from a window,
Dance glamorous in the median.
Days like this
you need to draw a little attention.
Days like this
there's a crowd of onlookers
that don't yet know their role.
Something stupid.
Something harmless but strange.
Eat the paste
lick my lips like it was glorious
and let them wish they had some too.
Smear it across my forehead
let them wonder what it might do for their complexion.
Slather it through my hair
Squish it between my toes
Fling it into the air
and glory at the way it rains down again.
Let them suspect
there was something they were missing.
Catch their eye
and smile.
Let them deny it.
Let them gossip
and accuse
but always, in the backs of their minds
let them wonder.
ABOUT:
Christopher Clauss (he/him) is an introvert, Ravenclaw, father, poet, photographer, and middle school science teacher in rural New Hampshire. His mother believes his poetry is "just wonderful." Both of his daughters declare that he is the "best daddy they have," and his pre-teen science students rave that he is "Fine, I guess. Whatever." Christopher's first full-length book of poetry, Photosynthesis & Respiration is now available from Silver Bow Press. Follow him on Twitter: @xofr Facebook & Instagram: @christopher.clauss.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING
Choice by Jack Stauber
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