Call It a Day
Bassoon's cucumber sound,
spoonful of low notes
to fatten a day brisk with laundry,
robust soup in a new pot--
dice, chop, boil, simmer and serve
a promise of clean sheets.
Murmuring over a salad of
fourth-grade spelling bee,
office politics, what the dog
dragged in, chewed, spit out.
Castled against yellow crime tape,
remains in a nearby ditch--
female with boots--call it
Friday Supper. Oh, call it
refuge at the table.
Offer carrot cake if you can,
cold milk, and a good night.
3 comments:
Kate,
Yeah, we are struggling with many, many, too many violent deaths of young people, male and female, in the Big Easy. The older I become the sadder I grow about the idea of solving one's problems with a weapon.
I really like all the kitchen in your poem.
You write a pretty good line, gal.
Thanks, it's a sad and scary thing.
"Castled against yellow crime tape" Wow. A line beautiful to register a horrific crime.
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