Oatmeal clotting in silver Revere Ware;
raisins in bed on a cinnamon crust; 
a brown coffee cup waiting, 
like outstretched hands, 
to be filled.

Three untouched bowls linger
beside folded napkins that absorb
the light pouring in through window panes.

I have gazed out from here
countless mornings
in stupored stillness. 
Downstairs, the seconds pile up. 
They fill my hollow, 
silent places.

Earlier, I watched red lights
twitch through the trees
with indifference—as if time held no grudges. 
They wheeled him down the driveway
in his bruised baseball cap,
crazed heart gurneyed
through flung-open doors

and gone.

He would return, cadence steadied,
unaware that later a congealed
lung would claim him.

Only then would I remember his words:
Humans must be wired this way.

They prepare oatmeal,
unfold business sections,
trust the unflinching beat.

Only when grazed by loss
can we delight again
over cinnamon-flecked bites.

Only when the rhythms change
do we find our lost hearts.

originally published at sleetmagazine.com