watch your eggs

she says, holding the canvas bag
at the far end of the check-out line.
The carton is balanced on a twin set
of coffee cans, a block of unsalted butter,
a package of blue sponges. I am nearing
that time I hadn’t anticipated while still
in my ripest patch of fertility, an age
a doctor would warn against starting
a family, though I have had friends
who’ve tried and succeeded. At home,
there are boys - not mine, exactly - waking up.
They don’t have my eyes, and never will.
Have a good day, I tell the woman who lifts
the straps toward me. The bag isn’t heavy,
but on the walk home
it begins to pour.