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Rated: E · Poetry · Mystery · #1969920
We sell eggs in South Bend.
Our egg supply is normally okay, that is to say we never had run out.
But it was a mild December day when the unthinkable happened, about
two in the afternoon as I recall.  And even now I don’t know what happened;
eggs seemed to disappear--our wherewithal being eggs for the most part in South Bend.

Yet whether there was some conspiracy by the chickens, whether eggs somehow fell
into an alternate dimension, or whether alien Grays absconded with them to sell
on a planet bereft of incredible edibles was beside the point.  My
concern was the potential reaction of the customers--I wanted to cry.

Egg-less in Indiana, feeling lost, like the fisherman whose rod and reel slips
from his hands into the water and sinks to the lake bed, like the waiter who trips
carrying a tray of champagne glasses only to have the sour splash and spray
evening gowns and Armani suits, he himself prone to an inelegant display.

I looked at Stuart standing akimbo beneath the reddish Coca Cola clock;
a loyal employee, he began to speculate, but I chided, “Take a lock.”
And I needed say no more, for he knew as well as I that mystery could wait;
soon enough the lull would cease--egg buyers would be coming through the gate.

I have no eggs and I must scream, I thought; we have ground beef but it won’t last,
and anyway, the egg’s the thing for people wanting eggs...crack of dawn, breaking fast
or even cool appetizers served as tasty delights garnishing a Spode* plate,
albumin all set to embrace deviled yellow...they came for eggs yet had to wait.

O how the chimes began to ring as customers came through the door, and how I had
to watch faces fall for want of eggs.  First, the smell of oil and grease from one clad
in khaki overalls, then the air of French perfume, then three businessmen in blue.
I cracked a grin, (although forced), and promised them a dozen free with an IOU.

24 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
January 4, 2014

*Spode is a type of china.

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