Concerning the Window
I confess:
I have broken the window,
the one in the kitchen.
The fog of my failures was condensing
on the glass and I needed the air —
the air is so cold here in summer,
maybe that’s why I wanted to cook
the black beans, to come home to
warm black beans in a crock pot
but I left it on “warm” all day long
so the beans were warm, all right, but raw.
Have you ever eaten warm, raw beans?
If you have, you will understand what it is
to push against the window that won’t open,
to push so hard that the wooden pane splinters,
because the less-raw, warm-er beans now cooking
on the stove are spewing moisture and futility
into the air and the humidity is sticky on your skin.
What is a metal latch on the third floor
interior window good for anyway?
Well, it’s less good at it now considering the wood
to which it was attached has fallen into the alley,
launching the ever-present pigeons on the opposing ledge
into a flurry of shit and indignance
before clattering next to the compost bin
(the one with rank, raw juice fermenting at the bottom).
But here’s small comfort — if these damn beans
catch on fire and the building goes up in flames
and the only thing between me and safety is a stuck
window, I’ll make it out alive
with my flaming-hot, just-a-bit-undercooked beans in hand.
Yours sincerely,
#3
