Red Room Where the Writers Are

Ordinary Things

A crow caws over the garden as if to herald  a bad omen. I escape back through the open door, into

the cello that bathes the room with tentative hope. I peel the potatoes until swirls of skin become a tangle

of distorted notes scrawled on ceramic. I scoop the limp tendrils up into my hands and relinquish them

to the bin. Naked potatoes glisten by the window where sunlight falls with benevolence. Like freshly

plucked  pebbles from the shore, their glory is only temporary, as the potatoes like the pebbles quickly

lose their  sheen, almost immediately, in the blink of an eye, they too become like, ordinary things. I

put diamonds of salt into a pot of liquid sea. I add the potatoes one at a time. A reassuring plop confirms

receipt. The sea gradually bubbles to a boil. I turn the dial to simmer. Simmer might take a little longer

but the result is worth it. Time irrelevant.