breakfast potatoes
in our favorite
breakfast joint
on the way home
from the hospital
for the first time
in a long time
I heard the sound
of one chef chopping
the rhythm of the knife
beating in my new ear
a sound my brain
knows by heart
when I caught his eye
I asked, “making soup?”
“chopping potatoes,”
came the answer
“we always need
breakfast potatoes”
it was almost noon
his preparation was
an act of fleeting hope
he will have to do
again tomorrow
after breakfast
hope can’t be
stored any more
than hash browns
the beat of blade
on cutting board is
what keeps us alive
Peace,
Milton
