“Hope bases vast premises on foolish accidents, and reads a word where in fact only a scribble exists.” -- John Updike
lemons
onions
carrots
potatoes
kosher salt
half and half
fuck it, heavy cream
Good luck at pinpointing
that airport pre-flight feeling.
trash bags and stickers
litter
food?
A 43 year old busboy at the diner
wipes the table, looks out at the craft
of clouds. What stripe is hope?
towels
hangers
candles
inaction
Crickets send up automatic monotony.
Silence as harvest.
milk
frozen vegetables
her dull egg eyes
sponges
Frost bedizens the windshield.
fried rice
spicy tuna roll
polenta
pork
swiss chard
Leon Redbone
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
The real is magic,
the magic is real.
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2 comments:
I really like this poem, Jenny. I wish that I had something profound to say about it or that I could describe the way that it feels to read it, but I think not being able to do so is part of the magic as well.
Lovely.
And I can't tell you how many times I've written a grocery list that contained the item
Food?
or
Food!
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