Static and Shells

The overhead speaker began to hum

that guitar line I used to know.

My fingers went slack and my mind went numb

in the middle of aisle four.

A dozen white eggs hit the linoleum floor,

a mess of a yolk and a shell.

I don't want to hear that voice anymore

ringing a hollow bell.

I looked at my boot and the yellow stain

creeping toward the leather toe.

It’s a stupid, sudden, and sharp-edged pain

that won't let the music go.