Egg Shells

When I was young
I once took eggs
from the fridge and shells
from the trash,
and went outside.

Hiding somewhere,
in a cool shadow of a red garage
or an evergreen shrub,
I would hold one in each hand.

Mentally measuring
how hard I would squeeze,
until emptied shells crumpled
and yolks ran down my arm
like blood.
Empty shells always broke first.

But nobody wants to break.

In our rush to fill our shells
we don’t think:
A six pack a day never kept a doctor away.
Porn isn’t a matchmaker.
And so on.
Until our shells overflow
with sticky sulfuric smelling vices.

But nobody wants to break.

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