I stare at the women on Facebook

in their bathing suits and Sunday best

and wonder…

Why don’t they look like that in real life?

The church man

walks across my parking lot

and gets a wave from the maintenance man.

It can be difficult to look your best

but he pulls it off with suit, vest,

tie, and black shoes.

He’s black

and his bald head shines like a light bulb.

When I do it, it feels unnatural—like a costume.

I wonder at the mysterious lives of these people

and who they are, underneath.

If you enter

my apartment

you will see

a mess

but that’s not who I am.

Inside my cabinets are boring books

but a revelation to me.

Unlike people who place them on prominent shelves

I keep mine

hidden away

just like the ideas in my head.

I let

one or two out,

from time to time

like doves

into a black world

like music

into the silence.

It could be

there are no mysteries—

that people live-out who they are

on the surface of things.

What comes from nothing

is the source of my power

like the goose that lays golden eggs

I can’t be cut-open for more.

The stories come a-squawking

in the morning


There’s one more.

2 thoughts on “Golden Eggs

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