Thursday, March 30, 2017

What is This But Joy? a poem


The bills spin out over the table,
a modern Pacific Northwest native art tableau
in red and black and white.
Muddy clumps smear the line of the kitchen linoleum,
boxed shapes smudged into ovals.
I can smell goat on my clothing,
a rank note flavoring
the sweetness of Zuppa Toscana.
Today, in April, it will snow.
Again.

What is all this but joy?

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