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IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
Time
A poem
People say they don’t have enough
but we all are given
the same morning cupful,
it arrives with a simple
red plate of cut strawberries
a maze of eggs, toast perhaps.
It is measured to the same faint line
that ignores the washcloth
until we sip (we are adding,
not subtracting) and fill
the day with grief,
idleness, our daily movements
we’re convinced consume us.
We wish to be singularly lit
like this painter in Arles
with his wide-brimmed hat
circled with candles
Fada the locals call him
Touched by faeries
spending Theo’s daily mail
not on room or food,
but paints and a stretch of canvas.
From under his unholy halo
he is drawing this last still life
the unbreathing apples,
fork on napkin, red plate and
coffee cup, the future
waiting to be heated, then stirred.
