Egg salad. It’ll kill you.
Of course, most things will in this world.
Laid, gathered, sold and bought.
Boiled, peeled, mashed and seasoned.
Egg salad. On toast
or a bed of lettuce if you’re gluten intolerant.
Prosaic, benign, tame and trite;
It seems haplessly heroic in its simplicity.
Like my life. But it will kill me
all the same. Just like egg salad will kill me
slowly, steadily, ever consumptively.
My veins grind and seize in their walls.
Pumping blood. Pulse after pulse.
Sum and substance tear through channels changing
sodium, potassium and the 3 OH’s
into something temporarily sustaining.
Like egg salad. A jumble of stuff
to keep you going and to stop your heart.
Sycophantic poseur. Witless thief;
Stealing time while pretending to give it over.
Marching through the days in April
That may fold into June, Springtime dies in Summer.
Change, loss, regret on the bloom
as allergies give way to sunburn and bug bites,
And egg salad with cucumber and watermelon.
All strangely refreshing, though overly salted with
tears, sweat, blood and sand,
All mixing in the ocean at my feet.
Here is a grain of sand. That, I can hold.
But how do I sort out the tears and the sweat
and the plasma, platelets, reds and whites?
It’s all mixed now. It’s all a great blue.
Like egg salad in a bowl, or on a fork,
Or in the sink with soap and bubbles and water.
Something, anything, every and all things
that could be available to me, if I could just
See more than this mess. Sort out each and every
distinct ingredient, pulling it apart with
scalpels, tweezers, daylight and a microscope.
It was never meant to be separate in the first place.