Tonight I gather the constellations
of chopped onions on the cutting board
into a glistening mound between my palms.
On the stove: two pans bright as mirrors
collect the stray thoughts that come
from inching food closer to the table.
In the next room
collect the stray thoughts that come
from inching food closer to the table.
In the next room
someone is watching 60 Minutes.
Someone is making a list
Someone is making a list
