We play records.
The rains know not
how to slow.
Hear a catch
in the chords.
Kneel, and lift
one breath to
the next.
Bounty
of chocolate
squares arrayed
on the table
between us.
Cards we tally,
past midnight
as the reservoirs
strain and fail.
Hundred-years’
black vinegar.
Flaked eggshell
and boiled yolk,
prodigious dusting
of celery seed,
pepper on pepper
till the tin
wrists empty.
Dry stores
shored against
the flood, dust
of mustard
or merquén.
_____
Image By: https://unsplash.com/photos/sHcRZ1erlUs