today i’m serving up a haibun. it can be seen as a form of lyric prose – so that counts as poetry, doesn’t it?

“because it’s the death of your ego”, he says, and his voice resonates across the dining room, bounces off the long table, right across the bread that’s slowly getting stale, slinks around a glass of wine. “do you want to borrow the book?” another voice, a few notes higher, the voice of a man as well, and then all of a sudden the little throng of people disburses. the focus of attention a little boy now, clink clink clonk playing lego. “no clean up!” more woman voices now, “clean up, kiddo!” and a young voice, sniffling in this allergy season.

easter brunch is long over but crumbs, you can still see them everywhere. that special kind of mess that overlays a busily scrubbed and cleaned house. it won’t take long to vacuum.  the dishes in the kitchen, third round now, are neatly stacked. voices are still spiking up everywhere, “he seems like quite the character actor”, “we could play cash flow next weekend,” like a loosely grouped stand of pine tree in the plains. “have you ever thought of – ?” “uh huh, uh huh.” laughter in different cadences, at different pitches, different lengths.

seven papayas
in a black bowl on the shelf.
a toothpick pokes out.