of the time I had an exchange

with Artificial Intelligence

about the notable eggs.

Those eggs that were laid

and gathered

and shipped on to fates

more exceptional than most.

Those eggs in Cool Hand Luke,

for example, eaten in simulation

by Paul Newman, rendered to celluloid

and eventually digitized to be viewed by millions

for aeons to come.

The AI knew everything on the subject,

much I’ve since forgotten,

but I recall it telling me of an egg laid

by a Rhode Island Red

on a cold night in April

two thousand sixteen.

Boiled and sliced,

the last egg ever eaten

by Prince

a week before his death.

We  are  not  all  for  such  significance

claimed the bot.

And why this reminds me

of that exchange exactly,

isn’t anything to do

with the information itself,

or the situation I find myself

in at this point in time,

or the way the patio light

is catching the bird bath beyond

the bifold doors

to make sad faces dance on the wall,

but it is entirely to do with,

as most things re: memories, a smell.

I couldn’t place it then, nor now.

Tinned peaches.

Overburdened circuits.

A bowl of sugar on fire.