This Is Not An Egg

The egg box was so sculptural with it’s peaks and troughs 

like a metaphor, a mirror of life in textured paper,

I thought a giant version could easily become

an acclaimed art installation

and I thought I could make it.

And then I remembered the glasses

left behind in a museum of modern art

by error or intent,

real glasses,

not the “ne sont pas les lunettes”

Magrittean sort,

I could feel some guerrilla art hatching inside me.

I fetched the pot egg from under the broody hen

and pondered the possibilities on the way to the gallery.

There, I placed the egg box on a table,

sneaked it in 

between the other exhibits

then I placed the Magrittean egg inside.

Just the one egg seemed most fitting

especially since one was all I had.

I had already written the title card.

Such a work deserved two titles

one above and one below the artist’s name,

my name, of course.

First came: “THIS IS NOT AN EGG”

and underneath:


It was perfectly placed

and looked magnificently subversively ironic.

I think Magritte would be proud of my effort.

And now I must wait

to see if anyone notices.


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