Scrambled Eggs

Under October’s canopy of rusty, “sun-winking leaves,”

I begin to doze off to the wheezing snores of my dog beneath

The chair, both of us shifting arthritic bones in our search of some relief.

Leaning back & closing my eyes once more, I discover what must’ve been

That same worn satisfaction I remember seeing in many old folks years

Ago as they rocked on front porch swings & basked in whatever sun

Could be soaked in. Oddly enough. I’m recalling now that sizzle & spit

Of bacon strips in the frypan years ago on the farm, accompanied by the plop

And splatter of fresh farm eggs just in from the hen house. Certainly,

Those weren’t the same store eggs that were this morning’s fare, those pale

And far too anemic excuses that probably sat for days in a back cooler

Of the local Fairway Supermarket. Excuse me for a moment since

I’m traveling back many decades now as older folks are wanting to do, re-

Calling those straight-from-the-coop eggs we had on cool autumn mornings

Like this one’s turning out to be, mornings when our half-year-old layers

Were all flush with eggs warm & content beneath their brown-feathered

Bottoms. But whatever eggs we filched from the hens back then came

Only after a minor fuss-up of squawking & wing-flapping protests,

A dozen or more eggs or as many as we fancied for breakfast that day

Since high levels of cholesterol hadn’t, for us, raised any major alarm bells

No one voicing yet any such concern from the morning’s radio broadcast.

Our youngest cradled a cache of eggs back into the farmhouse in an old

Dented tin pan, the eggs arriving in several shades of brownish tinges

Since our hens happened to be an exotic & fanciful, American mix, three

Or more generations removed from their pure-blood, mail-order ancestors,

Rhode Island Reds & Leghorns that arrived before those hens among them

Had been improperly seasoned by our two spur-sparing & feisty bantam

Roosters we delighted in naming Romeo & Tybalt. Thereby, our eggs

Turned out in a spectrum of tones from milk-coffee brown to milk

Chocolate, glorious American eggs that provided for any hunger our three

Children, wide-eyed & waiting at the table, might have. Scrambled eggs!

Yes, we were rich beyond measure back then, not giving a good gosh darn

How our beat-up, blue-toned VW Bug sitting in the corncrib might be in

Desperate need of another spare part or how those overdue bills had noses

To the ground, sniffing, homing in on our rural mailbox stationed on a gravel-

Top road waiting for a post. No, if there was any truth to be had in the radio

Bulletins back then, we did our very best to keep our minds glued to the good

Lives we had with those scrambled eggs plated & a morning opening over

The harvested fields with each of us eager for another glorious day dawning!

Terry Savoie

Terry Savoie’s poems have been in more than 400 literary journals both domestically and abroad over the past four decades. These include APR, Portage, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Sonora Review, North American Review, Commonweal, and The Iowa Review as well as America, Tar River Poetry, and Cumberland River Review.

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