1.
The butcher block has been wiped clean.
You stand in just your underwear
staring at the cutting board and its passengers
it's 1:15 am, cool air rushes from the open fridge
which gives the only light to the butcher block tableau.
You are tired. You are stoned, the remnants of a pot
browney stuck between your sore and tired molars, the taste
of it coating your sleepy mouth.
2.
On the butcher block there's a small wooden cutting board.
On the cutting board:
a big dull knife
3/4 of a sweet red pepper brought up from a farm in the south
two halves of yellow onions, but halves from different onions not the same
a celery bit
half a carrot, bitten not cut
tomato seeds and juice.
3.
Something woke you from your sleep. You think, You think
you dreamed of this tableau. You woke up.
You came to the kitchen for some icewater, with lemon.
You found this here.
Perfectly insignifcant. Cool air from the fridge.
Something wet and soft underfoot
mebbe some spinach or cooked pasta or old onion pieces.
You dreamed too of Spain, or what seemed like Spain
bright with sun and uneven cobblestones,
roling green hills under a white blue sky.
Women wearing mourning black hobbling down the cobbles,
carrying large baskets filled with spice
or laundry. The taste of boiled seafood
bland, seasoned with just pepper, no salt.
You dreamed you were a painter
and as you painted spain changed to france to
enland and germany, you think, but it wasn't
weird in the dream, it just was like that
they way dreams are. you tried to read a german
newspaper, but the words jumbled, this, you
remember now is why you woke. the newspaper.
under the illegible headline was a photograph of your father
his swollen red nose dark grey in newsprint
his head shiny, and eyes small behind glasses.
When you woke in your black
room this is the thing you thought of first
your father, in black and white smudged with fingerprints
then secondly the onions, the tomato juice, the knife
and the pepper.
The butcher block has been wiped clean.
You stand in just your underwear
staring at the cutting board and its passengers
it's 1:15 am, cool air rushes from the open fridge
which gives the only light to the butcher block tableau.
You are tired. You are stoned, the remnants of a pot
browney stuck between your sore and tired molars, the taste
of it coating your sleepy mouth.
2.
On the butcher block there's a small wooden cutting board.
On the cutting board:
a big dull knife
3/4 of a sweet red pepper brought up from a farm in the south
two halves of yellow onions, but halves from different onions not the same
a celery bit
half a carrot, bitten not cut
tomato seeds and juice.
3.
Something woke you from your sleep. You think, You think
you dreamed of this tableau. You woke up.
You came to the kitchen for some icewater, with lemon.
You found this here.
Perfectly insignifcant. Cool air from the fridge.
Something wet and soft underfoot
mebbe some spinach or cooked pasta or old onion pieces.
You dreamed too of Spain, or what seemed like Spain
bright with sun and uneven cobblestones,
roling green hills under a white blue sky.
Women wearing mourning black hobbling down the cobbles,
carrying large baskets filled with spice
or laundry. The taste of boiled seafood
bland, seasoned with just pepper, no salt.
You dreamed you were a painter
and as you painted spain changed to france to
enland and germany, you think, but it wasn't
weird in the dream, it just was like that
they way dreams are. you tried to read a german
newspaper, but the words jumbled, this, you
remember now is why you woke. the newspaper.
under the illegible headline was a photograph of your father
his swollen red nose dark grey in newsprint
his head shiny, and eyes small behind glasses.
When you woke in your black
room this is the thing you thought of first
your father, in black and white smudged with fingerprints
then secondly the onions, the tomato juice, the knife
and the pepper.
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