The Right Answer
For me, the veranda on mission-style rancheros Is the company at dinner, on sabbath night (and this only works in a decent-sized house, apartments excluded). And little learn'ed are we of rituals Or constellations drawn by ancient words, Supposedly leading me, like Great Spirit To Valhalla version 5. Entrenched in verbal trades; The exchanging of loving words and affirmations, Munitions in the form of praise and home cooking. Not ensconced in the rush of cold water from shower heads that suit tie briefcase days employ. An unshaken slumber, a dream where your hands are dipped in warm soup, so that you might feel the need to pee, But you hold it because you want to hear the punchline to dad's joke, which he repeats for the hundredth time, preparing a practiced chuckle Because it's not the joke that drew my smirk. It's mom's handsome hands which wove the bread I now butter; It's sister's jeering and juggling of complaints about coworkers I...