Green Egg

All the Easter eggs I didn't find, the one

I broke open and the green dye had bled

through. And I laughed, "Green Eggs and Ham."

But I wouldn't eat it. Threw it in the juniper

bush and returned to the house

empty-handed. My mother forced my brother to give

me two. He cried. Thirty-six years later,

I write this poem to apologize.

Brother, I hated eggs anyways, though I loved

to peel away the shell, the thin skin within.

Brother, I lied about the hunt and what I found.

If I had to do it all over again, I would've opened

that green egg and handed it to you,

so you could, would, eat it "in a box."

I should simply say: I found an egg

I threw away and took

two of yours anyway.