Eggs

On the morning of her thirty first year

of marriage she lifted two poached 

eggs from boiling water and

watched one break.

Truly she loved a perfect yolk:

perfect yellow softness

running to the edges

of her toast.

But for thirty years she scooped 

all damaged yolks upon her 

plate: unwilling to impose 

them on her mate.

On this day she said: Sorry

you take the broken one today.

Okay with me he answered easily 

I really do prefer my eggs that way.

-

The Age, Saturday Extra, July 18, 1987