In the house where he –
-quite recently –
with all their dogs, the timid cats,
the blotchy, acrid rugs, the dusty boxes.
She saves it all: the plastic lids, the spoiling food, the string.
Her kids would like to throw it all away.
Impatient, patient. Waiting for the end.
They do not wish her gone –
- she too -
picks up a broken album thick with dust,
says, “I hope I don’t live to be ninety.”
June Selection #3
Sonoma County Chef Under Night Sky
O see that slice of whitest pie
upon the table of the sky!
And over chocolate fondant hills,
the syrup of the moonlight spills!
He longs to bite into that pie
whose juices glaze the cooling sky,
to serve a table like this one,
whose every fragment is a sun!
The moon and stars adorn the air
with cookery beyond compare;
with feasts beyond all earthly eyes,
and past all power to analyze;
there is no reason for the light
which entertains his hungry sight;
but could he dine upon that pie,
and drink the liquors of the sky,
and for no reason burn so bright,
what worlds would stream from every bite!