This egg hates the color blue, 
this one smells of television innards.  
This one honors all equally,
this one is resolutely green.
This one is a rant of disabling fervor… 

What to make of this?
They say if you want an omelette,
then you must break eggs;
I must want an omelette. 

I’m so proud of the eggs I’ve broken so far!
The egg full of the love of music, that enjoys the guitar;
the egg that can’t love as well as it wants, that yearns for more;
the egg that falls on ice skates, the egg that kneels to pray;
the egg dumbfounded before the coast of Maine;
the egg on the floor that I will have to clean up;
the egg that proved to be fertilized, which I’m mourning now.

All of it goes
into the big blue chipped ceramic bowl
that’s my hand me down mama’s boy
only relic.  Big soup of yellow
and clear bits and spheres.  
Sticky stringy,
but everything’s there…
now, if I only had herbs, fine cheeses,
a stove, a pan, fire, utensils,
a plate, silverware, 
napkins, and an appetite,
I’d be ready to begin.

I’m a big blue messy bowl
and I’m cracked through.  I can feel
me leaking.  All those broken eggs
all over the last clean surface in the house,
and not a stove in sight,

but I still want my omelette,
I still want to make something
of all these shattered embryos
before I break from the frenzied beating,
before they spill, and spoil, and are lost.