by Gary Grossman

Who Cooks for You

chants the barred owl, day or night.
Loneliness, or just rote rehearsal for
Darwin’s final exam? Toddlers and owls
always ask questions, who or how,
when or what — both annoy like sound
exiting a milk glass, splish,
then silence, then damn, now I
have to clean this mess up. Just like
I have to clean up this poem,
or at least dry it off enough
to read. So many whys and whats
float the ocean of my brain,
hoping for rescue or at least
partial elucidation. So many
things to comprehend or not:
the world, country, city, the street,
the house, the room, the chair.
Who was it that came to visit
and how did they get here?
How did I get here?

Photo by Tina Rataj-Berard on Unsplash