the egg

the egg is perfect,
so neatly lined
in rows in the cardboard
box, each one oblong
and wobbly
hard enough to roll
and not break
full of unformed
life, now cold,
soon to be scrambled
or fried,
over easy, perhaps
boiled hard,
or poached,
white or brown,
the shell holding
in its sheen
the soft kitchen light.