Sure, I'll Make Dinner

howling wind to please me,

Thai soup to please my woman...

I wonder (believe it?) if the world has reached

Peak Authenticity

and perhaps we're now in a decline,

leading indicators of public servants

at odds with the served public,

tension everywhere and triggers on unexamined fingers...

Look at my hands...

I stir the rice with the casual bamboo spoon,

the windchimes stir the cold dark,

a little pot of domesticity here in the cabin

under a blanket of dark as cold as space,

starry sugar crystals scattered

in the black rich vault,

tattered pines taking this cold affront

and tossing down dead gauntlets all over the yard.

When I cook with these hands, 

thoughts of society's fabric

take warp and weft in the steam.

A car door closes, the red car in the dark

delivers an opportune rest in the thinking...

glasses clinking on the table

now able to radiate our simple Yes

into the hungry night and full companionship.