# 16 Running Out of Propane

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.

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© Karen K.L.Espaniola and hinarising.com. 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Karen K.L. Espaniola and hinarising.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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