Steam


My elbows rest on the edge of the kitchen sink,
a white scoured denture clamped over a clogged pipe
twisting and turning like some kind of rollercoaster (sent to this home by housewife hell – circa 1950)

nonetheless,

( beyond the dripless where forks can no longer be washed) 

a window looks out on a makeshift laundry line where  a dove dives under towels and underwear, 

scooping autumn chill, batting   his  wing 

at the crack in one of the six window panes, taped in thick orange, 

Though water stained, the rest of the glass is unbroken

so I try  to see …

white gold glimmering around the necks of wild oats,

the scent of steam rising off piles of straw

a neighbor’s backyard trailing white blooms and honey bees.

At night there are stars.

In the morning 

beyond the back of the fence where my daughter washes pots from a garden spigot, 

sparrows perch in the bristles of a fir tree…singing



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