FREED VERSE

I like my poems like I like my eggs:
   scrambled and runny,
   never hard-boiled,
   and fresh from a shell cracked too hard
   against the kitchen sink.
And call me crazy, that's fine,
   but I can't say I hate 
   when a bit of shell nicks my tongue.
   I'll spit it out, sure,
   (I'm not far gone enough to swallow)
   but I like that it reminds me 
   where the golden yolk came from.