My morning egg slips
into the pan. Chances were better when
I lived close to chickens. In a lifetime,
I can count my double-yolk
days on two hands. Better than the wild card
in Old Maid, a patch of four-leaf
clover, or a falling star. Two yolks gleam
at me. Bright twin suns
that traveled from a distant farm
on a refrigerated truck to this city,
anonymous in a five-foot stack
of gray cartons. What were the hen’s odds?
Mine? As amazing as I am here in this body,
on this planet, on a day when anything is possible.