He has eggs. He has eggs.
He won’t stop yelling it.
He has eggs. He has eggs.
He comes by this street
every two weeks
to give them away. He yells.
He has eggs. He has eggs.
He won’t stop yelling.
A half of me is trying to sleep
upstairs through paper walls.
He has eggs. He has eggs.
I hear the words over and over
and think about what
I am capable of these days.

© Carl Burkitt 2022