"Lethargy"
You’re in the kitchen stirring a pinch of sugar
into the sauce. Our boy kneels before a tower
of shoeboxes poorly rooted in the living room carpet.
Above the house, clouds stifle their opinions, float apart –
each to its own horizon. This hush is heavy,
but soon a fuss. Night splashes over daylight’s sinking spires.
Angel hair folds into a vessel of bubble and salt.
The world spins on its crown – a tower sways, stresses its spine.
This young child - ready to assume the toil of Atlas:
your wooden spoon scrapes the sauce pot’s smooth well.
My stomach announces its hunger. I can offer little more.
© 2007 S. Thomas Summers
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