Cocooned in maroon leather­chair corner of my bedroom,

my bare legs and feet stretched, crossed to rest

on a matching ottoman beside a cotton­curtained window.


In silence but for the intermittent

scratch of a Pilot Precise Rolling Ball black­inked pen

across a journal’s white page.


Now and then, I put down the pen,

take a spoonful of raw nuts and seeds,

chew then savor their texture, taste.

Out of the corner of my left eye,

I spot a tiny white butterfly

flit from the weeds beneath the window,


then notice the nearly empty cereal bowl,

balanced on my lap, is also white.

Pyrex—ostensibly unbreakable, dishwasher safe.


My left foot lies against a paperback copy of

The Expanded New Webster’s Dictionary,

toes bent toward a bluebird painted on a wooden tray.


An apple, wet from a cold­water wash,

rests on a white paper napkin beside

a beveled glass of cool water sweating in sunlight.


As if these morsels were the host and wine,

I pause before lifting my spoon or pen again.

Just then, a seventy­-year­-old white toilet

flushes itself.