Poem: Broth

sizvideos-water-hole
Water hole in Portugal, Serra da Estrela, Covão dos Conchos. in summer

Broth

Ten dollars an hour for twelve hours
—watch, stir, refill, stir again and watch.
My tool a large paddle punishes coconut clumps
Beats at them and their natural oil-tendency.
Tomorrow I’ll beat at raisins
Somebody’s gotta do it.

My day hovers at various levels of self-induced hypnosis
I’m on a lake of coconut directing my boat to stay still, hold still
do nothing but wait my turn to go down the cyclone

Leave the job to muscle memory
exit the body to float above the nation
visit the places and people of my imagination
I am someone else.
I am somewhere else.
A person who eats expensive granola

Meat cooks in water, bleeds out juice
Vegetables roll with the bubbles, lose their color
a slow boil
a long boil
add noodles
Soup

Poem: As an Old Man Who Sleeps Standing Up

Dorothea Lange man leaning against vacant store
Photo credit: Dorothea Lange, Man leaning against vacant store

His eyes close

As if he prays

Corners of his mouth

Move as a young cat

Dreams of suckling

Does his faith send a

Request to his god

Or does he dream.

A tear falls from the

Outside corner

Lands on his collar

No—it’s sweat,

A drop from his hair.

Old man is like a babe

Resting in a crib

Constructed by days

Of hard labor

Hammered by nights

With jarred hooch