Sunday Morning

In the morning light he stands silhouetted against the kitchen window’s gaze. Trees are a near image of black and white the backdrop behind him. They have grown there of dinner’s waste disposed of in pots of soil to late reap trees of plum and lemon, dates, and tomato vines, melons sprouts that will never grow pregnant into their confined space, and a new sprout yet to be determined as orange or lemon, but he knows that it is citrus.

As he pours the water (word for just before boiling) into the pot the gas flame flames licking at the sky stretching great feats of distance, three and four inches high unbridled flame. Tea and toast and little cookies. He watered the plants and there is a slow cascade of water dripping that blends into the choirs music wafting through the kitchen that seems just all to fitting for a Sunday morning. He discusses living in the shadow of the Roman Catholic Church and wonders why the Pope doesn’t save lives instead of souls.

He plays the harmonic on the toes of one foot—no, it’s the pan flute—on all ten toes to Mozart’s K622.

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