This quarter at mid life
sunk in the well of another’s word-work
time sulks, sleeps, wakes, opens up.
The cardamom dough swells,
supper plans shake down,
the boy lays down a beat
on his electric bass,
all that tick-tock,
all that heart beat.
The pop of the door—
sometimes wind punches
it open, sometimes it is you
calling me out of the depths
of others’ worlds back into this one,
where bread, food, bass line, love live.
(Posted by permission of the author)