As I tapped the egg
on the edge of a nearby glass
and felt its shell yield
my fingertips tightened
and I pulled.

Moving my chicken’s gift
over  a pan of hot water
I opened its shell
and dropped a golden yolk
surrounded by a syrupy mass
that turned from translucent
to white in no time at  all.

I watched carefully
until I knew exactly
 what I wanted to occur:
a poached egg
ready to be scooped from the water
by a slotted spoon
and laid on some buttered toast
I had prepared beforehand.

Those motions:  just memories now —
and yet I still salivate thinking of them
and I’ve been known
to have them in my dreams

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