Rocking Fork

At breakfast this morning

I set my fork on the rim of the plate

where it took on a life of its own.

It began to rock,

its tines on the downward sweep

nearly kissing the eggs,

the butter’s gold foil unwrapped

seemed to signal a gift,

a small miracle of physics

a rocking fork

as long as I watched.


Roger Camp lives in Seal Beach, CA where he gardens, walks the pier, travels the Old World, plays blues piano and spends afternoons with his pal, Harry, over drinks at Nick’s on 2nd. His work has appeared in the Atlanta Review, North American Review, Pank and is forthcoming in the Gargoyle Magazine and Hopkins Review.