Paschal Mystery

A poem. "How long is 20 seconds?"

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Many thanks to the delay brew setting on my coffee maker.
Each night tablespoon after tablespoon — measured grounds.

My wife tells me a tiger at the Bronx Zoo is sick as we watch
“Tiger King” with our cat at our feet. I think about how if I got
sick, she’d get sick, then the cat would get sick. I think about
how we are one stomach, how each day our bodies expand with
subordinate clauses.

My knuckles are dry from washing hands.
How long is 20 seconds?

This is 20 seconds.

We become aware of new functions on old appliances.
Engage the self-cleaning feature on the oven and the whole
house stinks of hot plastic.

Like I’m ten again, I throw a tennis ball against a wall. Like I’m
twenty again, no-comply 180 to fakie 50-50, half-cab out.
I am always trying to half-cab out of a line.

Lent is over and I can have my evening Pacificos again.
It is almost a spiritual practice : the smile of lime
stuffed down the beer bottle’s neck.

My EDD debit card came in the mail today, and I promptly start
shuffling money between various accounts.
Unsubscribe from HBO to maintain Hulu and Disney Plus.

Lent is over, but Tecate is cheaper and YouTube is free, which is
all we end up watching anyway now that “Tiger King” is over.

Each night: “It’s Alive with Brad Leone” in bed with cereal and the cat.

It is almost a spiritual practice: losing track of, and finding again,
the hours.

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