December (Poem)

the city:
         smelling like horse dung and fried potatoes
         red and silver glinting everywhere
        a tree made of Lego in the square

the train:
        packed beyond bearing with sour-sweated people
        bags on seats where arses should be
        panic a black tide in the dark underground

the calendar:
       screaming that the end is nigh and all the beginnings
       daily tchotchkes delivered to waiting hands
       the new fish, unconcerned, swim idly by, sending shadows across the dates

the kitchen:
       the good scents of cloves and cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg
       an array of hands cutting biscuits, mixing batter, making dough
       an oven dreaming of January, and rest

the heart:
       over-burdened, over-stretched, racing tappity-tip
       overwhelmed with the seasonal alchemy of sentimentality and overscheduling
       somewhere, deep and quiet: proofing like good bread in the sunny touch of love.

- Kathy, 10/12/15