there seems nothing
wrong
with the world,
when you're at last home,
stirring
the charcoal.
setting food on a plate,
making a cold
salad,
mixing drinks.
oh, the world fine now
with a loved
one near.
the music in our ears.
the front door locked,
the air conditioner on.
what joy there is in not
knowing
what the world is up to,
oblivious to what's
out there
and all there is to fear.
let's eat,
the food is done.
No comments:
Post a Comment