Counting cost on cracked shells

Bright yolks glare at me from plastic cages—

a carton priced like it was made of gold.

I stare at numbers, blinking twice,

a cashier’s shrug says, "Welcome to normal."

Two dozen dreams shelled and taxed,

each one more fragile than the last.

I finger the cracked edges, careful not to drop

these brittle suns that could burn my budget down.

Bills stretch thin where eggs used to buy breakfast,

now they tally up like debt, like loss,

a price beyond the skillet’s warm embrace,

counted out, cracked in more ways than one.