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I saw a girl on our local bus carrying a tray of eggs like a tray of champagne glasses. It was so curious I wrote a poem about it. Then I started noticing other people on the bus, or at our local shops, and I wrote a series of poems about them. I also thought about how they were connected to each other. This is the first poem in the series  – the whole poem is in 4th floor journal 2014Fourth Floor is the Whitireia Creative Writing Programme’s online journal. 

Eggs

She balances the tray of eggs
on her fingertips, just like a waiter.
She put on weight with the baby
and hasn’t lost it. Her thighs bulge
between her long striped socks
and her tiny shorts.

He is trudging behind her,
pushing the buggy.
The bags of groceries
are stuffed in underneath.
The baby is mashing
a slice of ham and chicken.

She walks four steps ahead of him
without once looking back.

That’s the sign.

Another six months
of the kid screaming,
the on-and-on argument about
who bought the fucking carpet steamer
and one day she slams a tray of eggs
onto his Xbox, and walks out
flicking her fingers into the air
like she’s calling the waiter.

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