Go back

                                                                     Don Schaeffer




She doesn't talk to me
about romance,
and bottles of wine.

When I do her cooking, I tell her
all good things
begin with an onion.
I just diced one
and now I start.

Celery, green pepper,
corn, cabbage, chick peas, I love these
with cubed baked potato.
I toss in a little sugar to carmelize.

This is common food, food of the hand
we can all understand it, like the
simple commandments from the breath of God.

I stand at the frying pan
on a translucent bridge
over a trans-
substantial ravine.



Rest Stop

It's a burp of a thought
coming straight from my body.
My mental muscles get so
slack I soon won't be able to hold my
head together.

I will have floated far away from my
the best friend of my start,
and arrived in this life
outside the tribe.

Here where she
always sleeps
on the south side of the bed
and I put her bread on the
southern side of the toaster,

here where I carry
old memoranda
like a blanket and
bear them
rattling around
when I move,

I have to wear a black shiny
time traveler's coat
that's always
wet from contact with
the Earth's warm air.



                                                                                © Don Schaeffer

triple rule

Loch Raven Review Winter 2005 — Vol. I, No. 2
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