CHICKEN AND RICE

Who knows what love really looks like
until it is staring you in the face
and you have nowhere to escape to
but that's okay
because there isn't anywhere else
you'd rather be looking anyway.

Your finger circles the rim of the coffee cup you've been drinking.

Paris next?
Then to some Tuscan beach?

The world awaits you.

Forget the fights impending.
Gloss over the difficulties.
Forgive, if you're able, the inequities
that disallow you to become one
but keep you parallel,
moving slowly north to an undetermined destination.

Where are we headed? you ask,
in the midnight of your green tea
or the doubt of your cocktail.

Yet there will be, occasionally, 
a moment when the world will sparkle,
and that's all it will take
for you to descend from the atmosphere
of nitrogen and desire,
and it will not be some picturesque view of Cinquaterre
or Vermont in the autumn
but, instead,
a Wednesday around 9:30 pm
when you are finally able to cook dinner
and come to the conclusion
that chicken and rice will have to do,
and, in fact,
it is the only thing you crave.

 

 

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