At the least I wear socks.

I have no Birkenstocks.

But there the eggshells lay,

Right in the hallway.

They trail like crumbs

And suck like Dum Dums.

Shells fan out in the rooms,

As I measure coffee spoons.

Editing my way in real time

An elephant hearing every line.

Egg shells spent,

Like casings rent

From a poultry perpetuity

Rifled from incongruity.

I pluck them up,

Place shells in a cup.

Then pour over gestalt,  

A bit of sugar, a pinch of salt.

I’ll sit by the Overton Window,

With a slice of sourdough,

And sip the essence

Of convalescence

And say what I ought

After more thought.