I clutch a smooth white chicken egg
Pondering it.
Analyzing and critiquing its surface

"How could this thing possibly support a tractor?"

My shoulders heave and sag
And I hurl the white yolk container at Mr. Peterson's burnt-brick-red house.
The yellow paste slides down the wall with a crook-toothed grin.
I think it wants me.
I quietly giggle to myself
And then skip-to-my-lou all the way home.

Love the Low end