by Jeff Burt

I know ordinary joy,
the feel of a pocket knife
loafing in my jeans

or the mint gum
I’ll never chew
lying in my shirt pocket

giving me a little whiff
of pleasure
each time I huff.

Last night in the evening
with our dog sniffing the culture
lying hidden in the ivy

I trussed the wires
to pull straight the doors
to a new gate

and watched industrious ants
with minute beads
of food hoisted on their bodies

heading toward home
and thought how soon we will eat,
how often I wait

in the dark for you to come home,
one lamp lit,
elated at the sound

of your shoes on the steps,
the depression of the handle,
the dog beating me to the door,

you turning on two more lamps
your speech like a pearl of ordinary soap
washing away the day’s toil.


Photo by Luke van Zyl on Unsplash