At seven o’clock I brewed some coffee,
waiting for it to finish, I stared at leftover pizza—
I decided to eat straight from the box
—like beautiful birds of old, or like the mouth of a miracle.
It was now Tuesday. Standing in the kitchen,
a lonely water drop rippled in the sink.
The first phone call of the day occurred at the sink.
I talked while pouring brewed coffee
using water instead of creamer, eying the box—
it was not going to sit in the oven; but the pizza
was topped with mushrooms like a miracle.
At eight the phone call was over, still in the kitchen.
I stood for a minute alone in the kitchen
looking through a droplet-window-of-water in the sink.
I handed myself the crust of a miracle,
coupled with a lone cup of coffee
and one delicious chunk of cheese, which proceeded another slice of pizza,
my ears were with the voices of clouds—beside the open box.
There was nothing crazy inside the box
nothing anyone was trying to do within the kitchen—
Look at that cheesy tastiness, I said, and ate another slice of pizza—
with dried cheese falling mournfully into the sink,
and, in a mug, half a cup of watered down coffee.
Only I stood within this miracle.
There was nothing that came next which was a miracle;
a beautiful last slice presented itself in the box
and from its cheese I saw a reflection of coffee.
The walls, a yellowish-plaster surrounding kitchen
added by talking nested along the sink,
—I heard water drop with one ear open to the taste of pizza—
and the echoes and the marble hallways-of-delicious pizza—
an aviary with bird-friends made by a miracle—
through ages, by insects, trees, near the sink
with compassionate ripples. Day-after-day, near the box,
at breakfast I sit in a chair at the table in the kitchen
with my feet planted on the floor, and drink coffee.
I ate the last of the pizza and drank the coffee.
A window across the sink struck the box
as if a miracle were dazzling the sounds of an ordinary kitchen.