The price of eggs

A carton sits, stark in its cost,

red numbers glaring, a weight on the week,

yesterday’s grocery bill feels like frost,

as I hear voices, a couple’s critique.

What once was simple now anchors the soul,

ordinary choices that feel so profound,

these eggs, a symbol, a story to hold,

whispering worries in a world spun around.

And I wonder how we count what we pay,

each meal a ledger, each dollar a tear,

how life can feel heavy, mundane in its way,

yet rise with the sun, though the end feels unclear.