Monday, November 3, 2014

HOT POTATOES

The other day 
with cold train
of barbed gray rain—November came and 

it was suddenly—quick! never mind
the old-
time war

between—the prepared stuff 
and the raw.

Countryfulls
of kitchen 
ovens and their clocks—I bet

the whole 
midwest—and Kate and I 
and even the dog 
not excepted!—yes, all seemed
to jump—just like that

and then
fall back—intent

on a similar 
but much 
more comfortable plot—an admittedly more

pillowy—mashup between 
what's hard 
and what's soft;

because nothing's like 
a chilly red sun
setting on your first teapot

to make it dawn—
everything's already 
pretty 

cooked—
as its likely ever 
going to get,

but most things are only 
tough—until you decide make them warm 
or wet 

or both—for just a little 
bit 
and then—they're not.

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?