THE EGG

‘Is it an egg?’ he said from one of the low walls in St. James Barton roundabout.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But it hasn’t got shell.’
The man got up from the wall and walked stooped over to where the egg lay midway between the phone box and where the plane tree stood until chopped down a few days ago. He crouched down, reached slowly, picked the egg up.
We stood together when he squeezed the egg.
‘Is it real?’ I said, wondering if it was a rubber copy, and not wanting to touch it again like I did before taking a photograph which is when the man said, ‘Is it an egg?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to eat it.’
‘I thought it was laid by one of the pigeons,’ I said. ‘They left it there, you know?’
‘But what about the shell?’ he said. ‘Why isn’t it on the egg?’