46 Readings | 0 Ratings

Oct 26–Waxed Beans

Poems come all the time now

but I don’t write them down.

Even this one is half what it was

before I found the notebook

and set the date.

 

“Are you mad at me?” he asks again.

How could the world be mad at him—

guilty of a few cheats,

maybe an unkind word,

and neglect of chores?

 

What sin did he commit

that is not many times paid for

by the Valley of the Shadow

he walks through?

 

I thought to bring him out

or make the path shorter.

I thought to walk by his side

if he noticed.

 

When God built our brain;

when the universe split

into being; when his father cracked the egg of his mother;

and wheat, cow’s milk, beef,

and waxed bean casserole

built the galaxy in his head;

there was no path by the lake for me,

 

no road by the river,

or dune walk over the beach

to accompany him.

 

Sometimes I can smell the stars

sulpherous collide, whistle, burn-out

and I ask him,

“How are you doing?”

And gladly offer to drink the tea

he makes for me so kindly

because he worries that I am too depressed.

Posted 10/26/18
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