How the Egg Got Laid
He figured he would have to roll
To a local singles bar and wait
For someone who could reach
The doorknob to push the door
Open so he could edge himself casually in.
So he did.
And he knew he would have to watch out
For all the semi-inebriated patrons
Who would be stumbling about unmindful
Of an egg quite possibly navigating single mindedly
So he watched.
He had heard the best chance
At unrestrained intimacy would be found
Where women in groups of twos or threes
Had flocked around an open table placed
Centrally to advertise their presence: women
With the hard look of omelet makers;
Who would crack and whisk a dozen at a time
All in one gasping de-individualized lot;
Women who knew the biology of an establishment
Like this select hunting ground.
So he searched.
And when he found a likely nest of courtesans
He wobbled over, carefully avoiding
The orbiting men who could not make up
Their minds on how to launch a pregnant introduction.
He bumped and he bumped and he bumped
The chair of the nearest lady until at last
She reached down and picked him up.
His yolk was as hard as chickenfoot,
And he thought it might burst right
Through his shell. And his shell itself
Was throbbing, almost pink to the touch,
As though it would strike sparks at a suggestion.
The experienced woman,
Swiveling her foot on one six inch
Heel and pinching her shoulders together
To make her bantam breasts pitch in her shirt
Like gizzard stones on the mend, said,
“My, what a cute egg – I think
I will take him home for breakfast.”
So the egg knew he had to work fast.
The woman coiled him in the curiosity of her palm
And said, “No, I think I will see what there is
To him right now”, and she cracked the
Hopelessly turgid shell on the edge of a drained
Wine glass, spreading the halves open so wide
That he knew, as he slid down the side of the glass,
He could not be her first egg.
Yet he settled in the glass, uncaring.
And when a man dropped slightly out of
Orbit and said,
“Now, drink it”,
The egg burbled in anticipation of such delight.
The man stiffly insisted.
So she drank.
And at last the slithering egg burst selflessly
Into a wealth of unbearable feathers of romance,
And, greedily, was no more.
After years of impersonating a Systems Engineer, Ken Poyner has retired to watch his wife of forty-one years continue to break both Masters and Open world raw powerlifting records. Ken’s two current poetry collections (The Book of Robot, Victims of a Failed Civics) and two short fiction collections (Constant Animals, Avenging Cartography) are available from Amazon and most book selling websites; as well as Sundial Books in Chincoteague, where Ken and Karen go to escape irreality.
Bill Wolak has just published his fifteenth book of poetry entitled The Nakedness Defense with Ekstasis Editions. His collages have appeared recently in Naked in New Hope 2016 and The 2017 Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Mr. Wolak teaches Creative Writing at William Paterson University in New Jersey.