Now that his spice jars are A to Z,
sadness hovers over the stew pot
He can reach and snatch cumin or rosemary,
locate car keys and billfold,
everything in its place except
the lost and lonely soul he knew,
happy to be outside a Dewey Decimal System
of grocery lists, doctor’s appointments,
dinners with new friends,
exercise with a trainer,
the counting of sit up repetitions
When the stew pot bubbled in its random juices,
a jazz quartet played scratchy on a turn table;
love making was come as you are;
Tony stopped by with a deal;
Madeline too with her violin,
and nobody around the fireplace
bragged about their stock options
His spice rack is lovely, polished and pure,
a work of art made to order,
composed of classic strips of soft oak,
cubicles he can square with his fingertips,
a harmonious mix of curies he can conjure
out of recipe books lined in a row
on the kitchen counter
Stuck now within the limited spaces he created
to organize a life of chaos and fear
he searches for the woman red with laughter,
a bold apron and a ladle in the air
between bay leaves and Babylon