Eggy
Egg is a boy’s name, an unfinished island, I recall
exact coordinates but cannot fly, and play down the
exigency. I have time to perform the medieval
egg-laying dude trick. Alternative transport does
exist: release the locked words, shoulder the yoke of
eggbox and behold! my cardboard carriage bumps
existentially down the disused E-road, occasional cagoules
egging me on from the kerbside dyke. The village of
Ego flashes by, eyeing me from its painted shell.
‘Egg!’ someone shouts, ‘Together we can save eggs from
extinction.’ No wonder I feel under threat. Everywhere
eggs are blown and nearly everyone sits on a fence.
© 2009
Salt Publishing Limited