Biscuit

Waiting for the four hundredth degree
and pressing the seam on the biscuit tube

A hungry daybreak stalks creatures
at the edge of the sky, it tans peach
and lime at the crack of cabinet doors
the darkness of night’s cupboard

Some ticks and creaks from the oven
heating and the silence of no rooster at all
spilling into the now-comes light

Waiting is the promise of a surety
a door-knock could steal its bell, but
the biscuits, as soon as anything
are due, they’ll be warm, and well met

White Wing

I’ve always a weak attachment to food
In the kitchen I’m an interloper, mending fences
A field hand to the duties of my own appetite

But here I am, bare feet on the linoleum
Rudimentary gut signals begging for nourishment
Appear to me as cravings for salt, or sugar

And I keep feeding this fount of desires
Rolling up some scrambled eggs in tortillas
While outside, a white-winged dove coos:

Who? Who? Who cooks for you?