Eggs and Milk

She was a ginger thing. Weak wrists, I noted. And flighty eyes. The sort that could turn a fork about in a bowl of eggs while bringing herself to a fit of laughter over a tale in her head and somehow fail to break a single yolk.

You know the type.

She told me she was healing. She had healed, in fact, she said. And she would heal me.

Flip, flip.
Yolk twist.
Gentle wrist.
The yellow still in balls.

I'm a cynic, but I'll soak up her smile and drink her tea anyway. Especially if she'll pass the bowl and let me give those eggs a stab.



...Some day I'll write poetry without the weight of love or innuendo. But not today.