Poem (William Matthews).

Supper

Tuesday. An idle rain so sparse
and distracted it might be brushing its hair
by a window which nobody passes.
So much of life is spent in a vague
readiness that when we catch ourselves at it
we’re a little ashamed, and pretend
to have been thoughtful. Good thing the soup’s
been on all afternoon—the beans releasing
their starchy fetor, and the onions, limp
and nearly translucent now that the rain
has stopped and the first scents of dusk
are following soup’s good news upstairs.

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