Puttering Around the Kitchen at 3.56 am
James Wright might have called a poem something like this.
He might have marvelled at the number of teaspoons
A man can go through in the course of day if he drinks coffee.
They lie, with puddles of dark tears in their silver concavities,
By the half-dozen, by the dozen, in the kitchen sink.
I work, if one can call it work, by the night-light, the bulb
Emitting twenty-five watts under the hood of the stove.
I don't need to see what I'm doing in the glare of sixty:
This is familiar territory. I know where the refrigerator is,
And where the faucets are. The towels, the coffee-pot.
It's a good thing I don't smoke. I'd have done that,
As I do everything else, with avaricious compulsion.
I'll nuke up a mugful of Folgers in a few, then maybe
Settle in front of the laptop and let fly with a poem or two.
Poetry by Thomas D
Read 129 times
Written on 2020-05-07 at 10:03
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email