I cracked one against
the side of the bowl,
viscous and literal
around my fingers.


It wanted to go home,
but I insisted
on folding it into batter.


I finally relented
and placed one
on a tea towel next to my pillow.
It made a startled little snore.


I rode sidesaddle, egg rode bareback.
I was impressed with its ability
to settle snugly into
the bow of the horse’s gray back.


Egg woke me at 4 a.m.
to tell me it had to pee.
I held it against the side
while albumen ran into the basin.


I ate an apple, enjoying its autumn
snap; egg sipped hot chocolate
topped with tiny floating marshmallows.


The dog became jealous.
I had to keep him locked in the bedroom
during the day.  He sniffed egg
and tried to eat it.  I smacked him hard
on his wet black nose.


I dreamt of egg, saw myself
in a row of three.  The one to my
right was freckled.  It turned to me
and said, this is the overture, love.


We sailed the Caribbean in February,
lay on deck chairs, enjoyed the buffet.
Egg wore a tiny tuxedo to dinner.
As we danced, I held it against my sunburned cheek.

Photo by Tengyart on Unsplash

Susan Roberts

Susan Roberts' poems has been most recently published in Dovecote Magazine, ellipsis, The RavensPerch, The Tishman Review, Salamander, The Brooklyn Quarterly and Sharkpack Annual, and is forthcoming in The MacGuffin. Susan teaches Literature and writing at Boston College, and divides her time between the gothic homestead in central Vermont where she was raised (and where her 88-year-old mother still lives) and the busy weirdness of Commonwealth Avenue in Boston.