COUNTING ON THE YOUNG–a dream poem
Someone had to make many cookies, the young woman agreed,
so the old woman went to her house at the appointed hour but
Father said she’d gone dancing after the oven was warm
and all the raisins carefully measured and the nuts prepared.
So the old woman packed to go with her bowl of dough
under her arm–easier to bake at home where the harp is–
and her old boyfriend swished from the closet, garbed like Oscar Wilde.
You can’t count on the young, he said, and she pointed
to a chipmunk on the windowsill. I don’t know how they get in
but someone has to feed them, so they tossed some raisins
and fine chopped walnuts all across the windy room.
February 23, 2003