Rachel stops by
As I’m popping biscuits
In the oven for supper.
While they rise and bake
Their scent fills the house.
I’m sure she can smell them.
We talk poetry, bluesky art,
Books in progress.
It’s getting hot in the sunroom.
My sweaty feet are squirming under the table.
I hesitate. I hedge.
Her slender, fit, lithe frame
Belies a hearty appetite.
She might not approve of such a meal.
I have to check the biscuits
But fear she will decry
My dinner choice.
“I am making biscuits and gravy for supper”?
it’s a confession not a statement
For she lives in a garden of herbs
She won’t eat chicken soup from a can.
Except for the week when she
Had her wisdom teeth out.
“Heck, ya! I’ll eat biscuits and gravy
I’m from Illinois!
I still say shucks and warsh!”
happily with three at the table.
she and Lan munch
fluffy biscuits and savory gravy.
And make yummy sounds.
My placemat is empty
Rice cakes just won’t work tonight
Sometimes nothing is better than an imitation.
The house is brimming with the sense memory
Of pancakes with Karo syrup,
powdered doughnuts, peanut butter sandwiches
French Toast, toasted cheese.
These would bring fire upon my body
Which now reads grains as poison.
So I stare out the picture windows
at the rock garden where the
cooling sunset paints the Snapdragons.
instead of red and white,
I see the petals
creamy, buttery, tangerine, orange
cherries and burgundy.
now THOSE I can eat.
but I hold an odd residual fear
Of their funny growling faces.
Even the dog barks at them
When I show him how Snapdragons can talk.
it’s a beautiful evening.
a gift to eat with friends.
all of us feeling our oats.
As is often true.
My plate is empty.
but my life,