O’ fatty bacon ends
and dirty dishes, and
sunlight on the
blue kitchen floor.
here we talk aloud
about running the
nation as if it’s
even a possibility.
i like the way flesh
smells in the air,
when the cast iron
is heating its oils.
outside a bell chimes
in soft March winds,
the sound: my relatives,
the sound sustains.
it was eaten all up
the while, the same.
it was good, and
i took Sunday full.
and i would write
about real, jokingly.
and i would listen
to podcasts, hopefully.
