Ezra’s fascination with Mussolini dispels
the notion that a poet—I can’t explain, a friend
says while we tend the smoker, feed splits
of oak to the fire.  I have oatmeal on the stove,
but coffee is enough for now.

What were the choices—all bad, I think.
One sinks like a descending balloon
leaking helium.  We cook the beans
in a pressure cooker.  Slice the cabbage
for the slaw.

I saw the sunrise this morning having
salted and peppered the brisket when it was still
dark.  We eat and read our poems on the patio
and imagine a world with bluebonnets
and bees—Mussolini, Stalin, Hitler dead
and dusty. 



From an Upstairs Windo