cooking oatmeal every morning
when the roosters crow
bubbling over on the white stove top,
fire burner spilling gassy heat into a cool morning still
thick, milky oats, clean and—
I imagine all the little dark hands sorting these oats
running their hands through the yellow grass of a sun burnt field
where the troublesome Santa Ana’s stir up long wild fires
swept, hot as—dry as—
a devil’s sky, blank as god’s bullet proof eye
way high, high above.

Morning air fresh on my face, this warm feeling
softly stepping through the house
all’s sleep
the colors slanted through the windows
cool shades of blue, soft against my dark eyes
sleep warn, been dreaming all night
I dream about the worn hands, sweeping through the grass
waist length, some shoulder, swallowing bare feet sticky with mud
dark hands, blistered, old and trained
appreciating beauty as it comes,
taking truth as it stands,
wrapped comfortably in soft bedtime slippers
hiding the scars criss-crossed along soft baby toes.


2 thoughts on “oatmeal

  1. Sam373 says:

    This Imagery causes my mind to run faster than my body can travel, yet, we get there…

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