In the shadow of the chapel steeple
we’ve simmered and sautéed all evening,
following the familiar patterns we know,
trying a few new things, marking time by
making dinners, passing plates, and,
finally, taking out the trash.
This morning, time was moved along
by turning pages, the clicking of keyboards,
and restroom requests; the tools of the
trade are stored in backpacks and we
made our day without thinking of
how long to braise the lamb.
A twenty-mile asphalt artery took me
from one world to the other, time travel
in a matter of minutes, punctuated by
a uniform change and a cup of coffee.
Neither knows much of the other;
I am a sliver in this Venn diagram.
My flight on the freeway puts me past
eighteen exits, or so, each one an off ramp
to another layer of life, another place
just like the kitchen and the classroom
where someone is telling time and
inhabiting the world they know.
It makes me want to exit early, stop
and ask, “What’s cooking?”