He’ll pause to give the nod to half a dozen
Elderberries all along the street between the corner
Depanneur and that last mile he’s worn
For years from sidewalk to the door. A cousin
Found the place one fine day when destiny was in a hurry;
A cracker box for sure, but overlooking sunrise and the river.
Kitchen’s not much to look at but big enough to chop liver,
Split an onion; no spilt milk in wasting time and energy; not to worry
Over details, no. But, then again, he ignores himself and wonders
Every once an evening’s glance about the Book of Hours, the place
Where the bed’s been made, the last dish done. Does he find the grace
To mark his time and space; is this still small world his final blunder?
The little joys are leaving now; it’s just past midnight as he sighs,
“Is this my private heaven or the final closet door through which I’ll soon fly?”
…painting by Leszek Sobocki…