Eric Ashford | + Follow Poet |
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Missed

My friend has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss her so much.
The drapes are drawn
I have to see, cannot be closed in
I miss my outer side so much.

Outside, last winter’s trees are clutching a few leaves,
I miss their bare bodies so very much,
I miss the broth of green, its absolute greenness,
where did that color go? 
The turtles of May are here early,
I have missed their wet-eyed sleepiness,
missed them, for they arrived early.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
is so easy to miss.
The May blossoms arrived in secret,
were daubed quickly by wood elves,
soon they will run out of pink and white paint.

My friend will come back with the chicken stock
and a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss thanking and dispatching a live chicken,
miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of the plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock
the mise en place of coq au vin
miss the taste of past meals.
Today I will cook some missing ingredients.

Dandruff clouds on the rim of my spectacles,
I miss the clarity,
miss the glossy curls of middle-aged poetry.
It’s almost unbearable to have missing teeth;
the stars have full gleaming sets
they are surrounded by mouths
everything is in order,
everything is hungry and surrounded by mouths
the perfection is unbearable.

I miss the farm-wise cat,
the sheepish dog and his waggish ways,
the strange speech of men looking for women.
the mélange and medley of fat times.
Nobody settles for consommé anymore.
I will miss cracking chicken bones today
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.

My friend rushes back from the shops
just so she will not miss seeing me.
If I am left alone too long I tend to make lists,
get too empty
and disappear for a while.

Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021

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