another thursday, morning

we're 20, then 50, then the days begin to slip away. filling with a sadness that can't be defined or understood. and if days are lost, or even years, there's ultimately no importance. the years are interchangeable. this is the latest piece of my 'homely' works. raw pieces about unsophisticated people. these are no operatic works of great love and great loss. they reflect the simple and profound ennui of days lived ordinarily.


making coffee

let's make some coffee, poach an egg, summer makes me
crazy, pollen's in the air, we can sit out in the garden, on
a wobbly little chair, touching toes like school kids at a

corny country fair, and can you still remember, while
we're digging in the past, the day i buried momma, in her
dress from sears on main, gingham full of of flowers, lace

all up and down, bought on time, paid by the month, back
in 1989? how we sat and drank with daddy, til i fell flat
upon my back, had to carry poor ole granny, cause a funeral

is just fine, with its casseroles and cakes, neighbors shuffling
through the house, maybe tears and irish wakes, musics
dark and simple, brass and pipes and horns, but why am i

here daydreaming, what ghost has called my name, why
is the day now darker, than it ever was before? have i
forgotten friends i once held dear, are they faces on a wall?

photos in an album, letters in a chest, and yesterday just
keeps on happening, hours with no end, roses never opening
or is this just my fancy, touched by wishes unfulfilled? but

weren't we making coffee, scrambled eggs, or drinking beer?