Food Allergy: Prose Poem

Eating eggs is like putting a unionized monster in my body, who drops his bowling ball on the parquet floor of my stomach, snorts and spits on my chest wall, rubs his calloused, tradesman's hands together and then pushes against the sides of my torso with Hercules bravado, shoving all moister out of my body, so it's streaming down my sides, neck and back like condensation crying down a toilet tank in a truck stop john in July.

Teamster-monster relishes this havoc, chuckling as he reaches into his bowling bag and retrieves and old fashioned egg beater. He raises it into my skull, grips the crank handle and runs the beater like God spinning clouds out of confetti.

My digestive system's chemistry set floods the scene in desperation, pooling morose fluid around the Teamster-monster's work boots and his bowling ball resting in a dent in my parquet. This is the start of things righting themselves.

When the Teamster-monster's shoulders tire, he lowers his arms, drops the egg beater into his bowling bag; fits his bowling ball in there, too. He looks around, sees he hasn't wrecked the place—everything will soon be, again, as it ought and should. He shrugs. It doesn't matter what state I'm in when he leaves, he's paid by the hour.