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Mar 2018
Off-brand chips and bean soup, again
Someone told me the skies here are blue
Today my tea is grey. The commute
Roars quiet, like an ostrich
Like a gas top and saucepan.

I taste red beans on my tongue
That I brought from my mother's house
Back home I have a chicken. My wife
My three daughters, my son
The train is red, red and white

I will call them again, tonight.
My knuckles are dry. My shoes are clean
Lint-rolled suit, crisp tie
Sharp and clean and white shirt
White and my red, red beans.
Written by
   Keith Wilson
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