Cost of Commonality

The aisle is a circus, all eyes on the shelf,

Eggs priced like treasures, each one weighing itself.

I watch as they grab dozens, a frenzy, a race,

While I ponder the worth of each fragile embrace.

In a carton, they sit, so perfect, so round,

Yet I think of the lives that still lay underground.

How many meals matter, how much are they worth?

In the nest of this market, we weigh hope and mirth.

One egg rolls away, and I laugh at the sight,

Like dreams that go rolling from morning to night.

The cost is just numbers, yet they can betray,

In the dance of our spending, we lose track of play.