I'm looking at a box of
tissues.
It is my supermarket's
brand.
The photo on it is very
beautiful and understated.
It shows a swan gliding
from the left.
There are no words on the
box.
In the background is a man
in a rowboat.
He is so far off
That at first I thought
he was in a kayak.
Both images are tiny.
The water is close and
expansive and there are
Undulating mountains low
in the background,
Also understated.
And as I say, there are
no words.
(The barcode and the name
of the store
Are printed on the bottom
of the box.)
The box is mono-tone,
mustard-yellow
Like just after the sun
has set
And everything is
saturated by the afterglow.
There are no waves, only
stillness
And perfect reflections.
The subdued color
enhances the feel of the scene.
I dreamed of a
supermarket last night.
I was passing down
spacious aisles
Crammed with food.
I was leaving the store
without any items
And felt the need to
explain to the cashier why
I wasn't buying anything:
. . . Because our friends give us food
And because we grow just about everything we need.
In my dream the
supermarket is closing for the day
And each time I list
another food we grow
Another cashier
disappears
Until there is only one
checkout station left.
I know that when I leave
This last cashier will
disappear.
It is July 1, 2016.
I am sitting outside on
the deck
At a little round table
with a madras tablecloth.
My wife and I eat
breakfast outside
In the summer if the
weather is nice.
We take turns cooking.
Her omelets are fluffier
than mine.
(This morning I was the
cook.)
When breakfast is over I
notice a small crumb
Beside my plate on the
tablecloth.
I press my finger onto it
And eat it.
(These days I am very
careful not to waste food.)
And the taste that spreads
over my tongue
Is a new taste.
It is nothing I had put
in the omelet.
It has some of the east
in it,
Some of the summer,
And some of the swan and
the man in the rowboat.
It tastes exactly like
today,
Even like this moment in
time.
And I think,
If I could only slow my
life down . . .
If many of us could slow
our lives down . . .
There would be plenty of
time
To make the world over
And even time to make it
over again
And again after that if
need be.
And just to make sure I'm
not fooling myself,
I turn the box around
And it is the same scene
but different:
The man is facing left in
the rowboat
And the swan is swimming
from the right.
And I think to myself,
I will have to write a poem about his,
Only what am I trying to say?
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