as is my wont, i'm bringing back a favorite . . .

?, no. 5

there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, tucked into a
corner, tossing flour up on the air, making words that float
and make a chatter that i can not understand, and his face

is hidden by this ghostey clamor, so i can not judge his eyes,
or have his lips been kissing mother, has he brought some
solace to her days, for he must know she's buried deep in

secrets, locks her windows with the failing of her charms, she
has a craft that comes from rare and special creams, she
has an art that speaks to wayward husbands, suitors with

unseemly dreams, or does he make some pact, here in my
kitchen, will he take my coffee for his own, and have his
supper at my table, sing some ditties to blush my mother's

cheek, there is a man, sitting on my kitchen floor, or am i

simply lost
?