Falling asleep
With a potato in my stomach,
Not the black rotten one the guy eats
In the “Pianist”
You know, the one he peels with
His thumbs,
But a microwaved one,
Mushy from high-powered waves
That could’ve burned my
brain in seconds,
`cause I live in this modern world
Of hurry up and do it now
“Wiring” it up “for comfort” as Rita Dove would say.
Days of shifting logs in wood stoves
Singed hairs and charcoaled finger tips are over.
Though I miss the smell of
beans simmering on a winter day
And will dream of wood smoke and soot,
crumbling bark and damp log filling the air.
