At the Kitchen Table

You can see clear to the water,
Only it’s iced-over down there now
And snow-covered, and the restless
Winter tides have rumpled it
All up at the precarious
Edges of shabby capes slumping
Like worn mattresses slowly
Sloughing bedding to the floor.

You can see clear to the water
While you peel potatoes and turnip
To toss in the pot coming to boil
With the cabbage, yellow onions,
And the salt meat soaked all night,
But you can’t see your way clear.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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