I am from oatmeal,
served fresh in the morning,
with a brown sugar dress, and raisin sequins
I am from penalties and corners,
Part of a center forwarded game
I am from the dainty Japanese maple, whose tender limbs,
once provided a scarlet seat,
I am from the delicate Kawai,
upright and ebony, sounding each morning,
a single flaw etched into it’s spotless exterior
I am from the corroded brandy table,
minuscule pits of sadness scratched into it’s front
From the upside-down stink horns, residing in the crevices of mildewed fir bark
I am from dirt covered cuticles,
jagged nails, a bruise or two embodied into my skin
I am from rich pumpkin pie,
creamy whipped cream,
From Mom’s delicious gravy covered chicken
I am from Chai in the evening,
from Hola and Bonjour
From A job worth doing is a job worth doing well
Hidden notes to self,
pages of markings,
in a shuffle of half shreddd loose-leaf
Kept safely,untouched ,
in it’s own glass case
In….It’s own imaginary Louvre
