by Robert Joe Stout

A simple meal: lentils, rice; clay bowl
crafted on a potter’s wheel; he reads
while eating (handicapped by broken teeth),

his one companion a black cat
perched tableside, his memories
like clouds dwindling into scraps

of gray above the building tops.
Content? He doesn’t think about it much
nor venture into fantasies

like he once did when he was young.
Enough to eat, books to read,
life like fishing in the river:

maybe catch a perch, a carp
or nothing more than warming sun,
phantom clouds, the sudden flight of doves.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

Copyright by Dallas Poets Community. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.