The old recliner under the maple
on the curbside waits, fated for pickup,
by some scrounging passerby.
The nagging dry cough, a side effect
from pills the doctor insists I take,
bites deep into my lungs.
The drop of olive oil on the stove
I forgot to sponge off, squirms black,
covered by those rife monomorium.
Life is a still life, direct and dumb.
The pasta con tonno tastes hopeless.
A shadow slices the kitchen table.
The mind, fraught with words,
dances a tortuous bump and grind,
a cartoonish tarantella of thought.
Even the woodpile nags me –
turkey-tail mushrooms sprout
from two exposed oak logs.
A heavy cloud rolls over trees
bearing down like a heavy note
in Chopin’s D-flat major prelude.
Maybe it will rain, maybe not.
Today the heart, an unwashed dish,
stares at me, insists to be picked up.
I do not have the strength
to lift a book. Three startled crows
strafe the neighbor’s garage,
then veer at a sharp angle straight
up and away toward who knows where.