Dinner At Tom McCabe's

This is a poem for the group. Keith, I don't use end-line rhyme like you do. I tend instead toward internal rhyme, and my poetic expression is more abstract than yours, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. I love reading different styles of poetry. We round out the universe that way.

Dinner At Tom’s

Another hour spent stirring this gravy of sand, cacti, sun.

I’ll add lizards because their tongues refuse straight lines,

scorpions because pain adds flavor. But always my questions:

Is this mixing into just a tired wrist? A pitcher that pours dust?

A mirage I wish I could believe? A whole waste of a bowl?

Then a drop tapped off your finger forms an ocean;

A cold pizza enfolds a life. Let the connection rise to delicacy.

If we cook for hours we’ll need no knife. Quickly shut

the oven door before creation collapses. Let us linger over plates

and invite our guests and hope, for all of us, a taste will remain.