Paperwhites were sagging about the sink.
You could smell fresh air on them
if you got close enough.
Their curtain, white and green,
the only one on the kitchen window
And through it, snow refused to budge.
Odd to have flowers and snow
even if they matched in color.
Except the stems, of course,
they stood out like the green bottle next to the clear glasses,
like the chicken magnet
among those little magnetic words
that never spell what you want.
Words like “bubble”
but not “the” or “and.”
Why would I need to write about bubbles?
My toe rubbed against the polished maple rung
of the tall kitchen stool
silent rhythm to the dog’s tapping nails,
ever-present radio, NPR
or a Cuban CD.
A jumbled soundtrack
to my moment of thinking nothing,
forgetting to check the notes
that came and went,
muddling over the fridge;
my tiny collage.
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