you go out for twelve eggs and come back
with half a dozen and a new girlfriend.
you hold the eggs out to me like
six dead birds is enough of a peace offering.
i push the eggs out of your hand and stay
with my hand over your heart as i watch them
fall. if they do not hit the ground, this is all a dream.
the eggs smash on the tile and splatter
on the cherry wood cabinets, newly installed
that cost me two paychecks.
the egg whites hit your leather shoes that
you’ve worn for two months straight
because you think they make you look more sophisticated.
the egg whites hit the fridge halfway up, barely touching
the moose magnet my mother brought us
back from Yellowstone.
the egg whites come near me and i close my eyes
and open them again
because this is not a dream
you stare at the mess and look up and tell me
you’re sorry. i stare at you until you
get a mop and wipe up the broken bits of bird.
there must be irony in that for you,
because this is the last time