In this late afternoon I look up to see David
strolling down our yard.
And without a word I invite him onto our porch.
We sit at the table.
And in a moment, I get up, step into the kitchen, and bring us back
each a bowl of stew.
No metaphors, no words of the ancients here,
just bowels of stew I made the evening before.
Then, in the still of that setting sun,
we sit, and we eat.
And there beside the porch, the birds that Issa heard
join us, to sing, for us,
--(David Budbill, 1940-2016)
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