Sunday, February 15, 2009

poem written in Mr. Jones' class

August 5, 2006

I come dripping up from the lake
into air heavy and sweet
with propane fumes and smoke
and settling twilight.

With an old blue towel
rough around my shoulders
I take the long-handled fork
you offer me,

serve the thick black steaks,
cris-crossed with imperfect diamonds
and sprinkled with salt and herbs,
and sit beside you.

Our plates are smeared with charcoal and fat
and a little blood from center of the beef
as we saw with plastic knives
that will break so easily.

1 comment:

  1. Very nice, thanks so much for posting it, I've been wanting to read this again for a long time.