Cracked

Not long before the coiling shouts
shuffled out the hidden screen door
with tails tucked tightly ‘tween
their legs, I cracked an egg
in the rough burlap cuff
of my aged kilt and basted
it in a neat sunny-side-up.

Not long after the runny yolk
popped and slithered ‘round my ankles
like discarded underwear or lonely
tabby cats, the pounding door screened
with a shadow darker than ink, darker
than rock sand or slick, oiled hair.

Not too soon, it blasted stealthily past
the mossy rock wall and narrowly slid
its head into my knee, vicariously
lapping my toes into tingly pins
and pricks.

Too long, it shined the yellow cell
away with a downy adjustment
and an iron fork worked beneath
my skin and peeled it up like a tent,
my golden skin taught ‘neath the prying tines.

Not long now, and the germinating
canvas, watered down like over-iced
lemonade, will snare the gauzy tide
and rip the over-sexed sky into thirds
like a banana peel, taking the screen
but leaving me the door and the shadow’s
ice-bitten shadow.

(I'm stuck with this poem, anyone care to critique or edit it?)