Lemons

What are you going to do

With those lemons?

Oh, those are left over from

When I made lemon bars.  It was

Cheaper to buy a bag of six (maybe).

They’re sitting in the fridge going bad.

Three lemons, in the bottom left drawer

Sitting on quart-sized yogurt tubs,

Mocking me each time I swing

Open the refrigerator door,

Their withering peel darker

And more brittle every time

I give in and acknowledge

Them, taunting me with the truth

That eventually I will face the

Shame of tossing them into the trash.

(Have you still not set up a

Compost jar in the kitchen?)

Decay tries to mask the scent of

Real homemade lemon bars.

I finally had made some

And they were just right.

Due Diligence

Due Diligence

Nights during my childhood, I was on duty.

Muscles tense, I memorized the exact

Position of my ankles, wrists, the hair

Limp across my neck, certain that the

Precision of my pose would shield

Me, my parents, my brothers and sisters

From catastrophe.  Each breath was

Allowed a measure of freedom to escape

But only to return with intelligence

Of the invisible kitchen, stairwell,

Basement.  I analyzed every nuance

Of scent, scrutinizing particles of air

For telltale whiffs of smoke, wondering

If it was time to get up and check.

Because I was reassured by the same

Vigilance that kept me awake and

Petrified, I was engaged in an ever-looping

Dialogue that had no off ramp.  Is there a fire

In the house,  quietly overtaking my family

Or can I relax now and fall asleep?

June 8, 2011