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Yesterday, you brought me a dozen eggs
from the farm down the road, sweetly
remembering my promise to poultry everywhere
to only eat eggs from chickens I know.

I slip the carton in the fridge, quick
so you won’t see the ones I already bought.
An easy deception. We’re in a hurry.
Out the door to the last in a dozen years
of school Christmas concerts.

Early this morning, I hard boiled the extra eggs
and couldn’t decide if this was a metaphor
for riches overflowing
or too many eggs in one basket
or even something about fertility
and the end of this long, wild ride
of being a mom, raising kids.

Who knows what it means?
Some days, this is delicious enough:
Steam rising from the pot of almost boiling water,
as I flip through the possibilities and
anticipate an egg salad sandwich.

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