stretching and steaming on the porch
after this morning's run I spot
the discolored stain from where
an egg hit the side of the house
just to one side of the front door
so low that it almost hit the porch
instead. I remember finding the shell
that morning months ago, white and frail
on the concrete, a little empty cup
like the ones you find in the grass
discarded by the newly hatched
nestlings up above. But this one
didn't hatch, it smashed after
a short flight from the sidewalk
or maybe the street, launched
from a rolled down window
by who knows who, just some kid
like I used to be, but one a bit more
daring, more reckless, than me.
We did a poor job cleaning it
which is why it left a stain
a bleached spot in the brown
siding, a small amoeba with a tail,
a pale flower on a stem sprouting
up from the porch and blooming
there, just a few inches off the ground,
an object of contemplation year round
as I head to the front door and look down.
