I cradle eggs in a woven throne, High above ground, safe and alone. No door or lock, yet feathered kin rest What am I, where fledglings are blessed?

Carts roll along the aisles, gathering treasures with smiles. A list guides the journey, step by step, through the market as we schlep.

Once part of dinner, set aside, to face tomorrow’s microwave ride. Forgotten deep where cold winds roam, often abandoned in my plastic home.

For a while, these mercury filled tubes went in either end. How did they track which when where?

A drink that makes you tipsy In martinis and tonics, it goes Not gin, rum, or whiskey Because it comes old potatoes