Scrambled Eggs

I carefully select one.

Afraid I’m going to crush it, I cradle it in the palm of my hand.

The shell is cold and dry,

I can feel the yoke splashing around inside of it.

A sinister grin comes across my mouth.

At the dispense of my fun, will be someone else’s agony.

Four boys, equipped with two eggs each.

We approach our target.

Our silhouettes fall onto the street,darkness hides us.


I wind up,

like a baseball pitcher on the mound.

My eyes stay locked on my target.

As I release my first egg I realize something and try to hault my throwing motion.

We have all aimed for the same thing, a half open window on the second floor.

I watch in terror as two eggs shatter the window and the others sail right through the wider opening that was created by the first two.


Because of my hesitation, my egg hits the front door.

The instant my ears hear the shattering of glass,

I turn into an Olympian track star.

Eggs were meant for eating and carnival games.

But not for throwing.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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