by Glen Martin Fitch
I take a dozen eggs
out of the fridge.
My thumb nail tests
the firmness of a shell.
A world contained
within each fragile cell.
Is living
not a wondrous privilege?
Yet everything I eat
makes me feel fat.
It seems I've lost
before the day's begun.
The carton cradles each
and I pick one,
which falls out of my fingers
with a splat.
Do I do this to me
or is it fate?
To take control
each scheme I try.
I swear "to me be true,"
yet cheat and lie.
I know the soul
I'm working to create.
I ought to stoop
and wipe it off the floor.
Instead I turn
and drop eleven more.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 25, 2011