The Great Runway of Life
after Kay Sage’s “The Minutes”
Factually, I have never been lost.
When I can’t find where I am supposed to be,
I’m an egg on a journey
surveying the ledge,
sunny side up in the back
of a car, going where eggs go,
where oval shadows coalesce with
hungry, happy hands,
and boiled and swerving
through bodies trying to arrive at my promptly-
timed reservation. I’m a bad egg.
I’m late for dates.
I’m known to bring roses, though, bring lips
like a yoke,
thickly pressing hard,
dollop dropped in the throat.
On the great runway of life
I crackle and pop, I gush
myself open and drip under the stage
where the orchestra plays. The poaching jokes
I don’t think I’m always the main character.
In so many of my dreams,
I die before I reach 30.
In 7 months, I am supposed to turn
age, runny side up, of 30. Like an egg
on a journey
I’m not ready to stop going.
I want to be late
for so many more dates, I want
my dreams to crackle,
like shells, fall to a compost bucket,
I ask, munching bugs, leave me here,
not eroding, not
shiny, but ready
to roll through the world.
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