What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?
So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt-
frog at the edge of a pond-
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.
I am envious of your candle,
having only a cheap logoed cup with two sad pens busy inking the bottom
in lieu of tea.
And a black phone silently telling me I have seven missed calls
none of which compel me to return them
as I am busy
gazing out my window
where the winter oaks just beyond the parking lot
dream of medieval forests
and small albino deer.