The silk from the cottonwood tree
hangs still in midair
like peachfuzz in a dish
of lemon Jell-o.

I could eat this day.

In the cool dark houses
the plates sit piled and ready
while in the waning afternoon hours
the people rush home for their dinners
broiling single-file on the sidewalk
turning slightly
their eyes following the passing cars

for all the world
like rotisserie chickens on display.

And in every garden the wilting flowers
collapse into heaps of colour
like exotic salads on the brink of spoilage.

Every road sign immaculately lettered
like a menu showcasing the day’s possibilities

I am lured from my home
like a child with a craving

for a dish she’s never sample before.

(August 9 2002)