Tomorrow, your spanglish ends the evening.
A scattering and bringing together
at the table they made.
Downstairs in the dark
sometimes I let one dim bulb
light a 3 o’clock foray into washing.
And when the machine gives out,
I thank my hands for fishing the threads
from the ice cold washing water.
Another February passes, hour by hour.
A mild one. a reminder of the cold.
A cat who keeps you warm some nights,
nestling in under the covers.
Tomorrow, a thimble of oil
you spill on the counter.
A meandering walk to the park.