STALWART
At the cookstove is my avenging angel, concocting
a rubble of stew; something, anything to serve
to the wayfaring stranger bound to show soon.
Washing tense silverware in the old oaken
bucket, she stands sideways to the light
and straight out to the wall. It's a picture-
perfect cave painting from some
filthy Lascaux of my mind.
-
Never more than tiny additions of dirt,
the piled-up mounds in the corner
led me to believe in the succor
to come. As if I could wait
forever, I stood in place
and just watched.
At the cookstove is my avenging angel, concocting
a rubble of stew; something, anything to serve
to the wayfaring stranger bound to show soon.
Washing tense silverware in the old oaken
bucket, she stands sideways to the light
and straight out to the wall. It's a picture-
perfect cave painting from some
filthy Lascaux of my mind.
-
Never more than tiny additions of dirt,
the piled-up mounds in the corner
led me to believe in the succor
to come. As if I could wait
forever, I stood in place
and just watched.
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