Three poems

We Take Turns

she cooks magnificently.

fried rice with eggs,

spices and sliced

chorizo. roasted broccolli

and hot pepper. delicious

butter chicken. sunsets.

I sit at the table and watch

as my food

is brought in red bowls. hot and ready

and built of skill. I'll wash;

I don't mind - not much of a cook

but I feel good

being useful. she brings wine as well,

and afterwards

we have chocolate.

we take turns; when it's mine

she chooses a place

for our take-out.

The Legs of Wasps

over the coast road

cranes turn slowly,

mechanical as the legs of wasps. once

in canada

one of them got in

through an open window;

landed right

in my wineglass.

I fished her out