CONCRETE THINGS

I am sitting in the kitchen, while the pasta boils.

I love concrete things

and to learn their words before breakfast:

alarm clock, rain on the pavement, supermarket,

kisses at siesta time,

a glass of wine, friends,

my son's small hands,

people in the square,

you...

They produce the sweetest, most languorous tickles,

like a sybarite's feast after a diet.

I find it impossible to turn from such things:

they've stuck to my pen and I can't seem to shake them off.

But nevertheless,

concrete things don't admit of delays,

and the pasta is ready by now.

Such is life,

Just when the seedling of a poem starts to germinate,

there comes the mundane barging in.

And I have to get up from the table,

while the shadow of a viscous mood settles.

© Miren Agur Meabe