Slowly, slowly

my days are moving

toward what

I want them to be

soon, that table

which causes me


because it reminds me of my father

will be gone

I will arise at dawn

and put on a pot of soup

stretch my limbs

like a plant unfurling

in the light of the window,

surround myself with stories

and salacious old women

and know the peace I have found

is my own