Oatmeal

• Oatmeal
•  
• I’m eating my last bowl of oatmeal,
• looking outside the window
• of a life that was meant for us.
• It’s perfectly framed:
•  
• You in the sunlit kitchen
• singing dad rock making ciabatta,
• swaying your small hips to rhythms
• still foreign to me
•  
• and I endlessly pondering
• how to fit
• all of it
• onto evenly spaced lines.
•  
• Love was delicious to you.
• The tomatoes you grew
• welcomed eating and everything
• else that needed to be tasted.
•  
• I was there to catch them
• with my clumsy hands when
• they at last fell, bringing you down
• with me to kiss the generous earth.
•  
• Now I’m waiting and twisting
• my cold spoon in circles
• until one day I hunger
• for something more than oats.