Poetry

The Egg

John Whitworth

Consider an enormous egg.

It is, perhaps, an ostrich egg.

Suppose it is an ostrich egg,

The ostrich egg beneath your chair.

(And what can it be doing there?)

Suppose it smells. Suppose it swells.

You’d like it better somewhere else.

You’d like it better in the loft.

(The egg is warm and strangely soft.)

You’d like it better in the shed.

(The egg is glowing strangely red.)

You’d like it better in your head.

It’s so much better in your head.

You cross your heart and wish to die.

(The egg begins to sough and sigh.)

You wish that you could put it back.

(The egg begins to gasp and crack.)

You wish you had a telephone.

(The egg begins to keen and moan.)

You do not wish to be alone.

You do not wish to be alone.

You leave your chair. You leave the room.

The room is quiet as the tomb

You listen quiet as a mouse.

You leave the room. You leave the house.

You vanish from the neighbourhood.

You’d leave the country if you could.

You know it isn’t any good.

(The egg begins to sob and squall.)

You know it isn’t any good.

(The egg begins to caterwaul.)

It isn’t any good at all.

It isn’t any good at all.