I buy tomatoes, I buy onions, I buy tea.
The pantry is stocked with sweets but my tongue
needs savory. Here is my troublesome past
come back— it coasts across the interstate
without brakes, slaps down the bill, rearranges
all the furniture. Out there, a white haze smudges
the bank above the road. A brown thrasher in the yard
mouths everything twice: Consider, consider.
What I imagine he says is good advice.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.