Eggshells

Eggshells’ve fallen in.
The custard knows my inexperience.
The cheese comes out black.
The crust comes out dry.
I eat every bit of it
with bitter, spiteful satisfaction.
Shells crack under my fork
and shatter.
A piece brings tears to one eye.
I had once complained that
I hated quiche,
but now I wish I’d given it a chance
when you were still around
to make it right.

For Harry

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Lay an Egg

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