Another Crock

"Snowed in," he sighs to the showerhead.
"I should make soup," he says to the soap.
That would've happened three years ago 
but now green sprouts grow from the onions 
hanging in baskets they searched for and bought.

He'll finish and rinse and try to repeat;
trim eyes from the spuds, thaw ancient stock.
None of what stays in her wake is malign.
He knows what ingredients stick to his ribs.

Curently reading:
"American Gun:  A History of the U.S. in Ten Firearms" by Chris Kyle (RIP).

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