Did the day get done

Or did the day do me?

Today my small doings:

chicken lentil soup stirred

and poured thickly onto plates,

achievement I, although I was

neither the chef nor the

conversationalist at the

old pitted dining table.

Think of the voices heard

over its pear-wood patina,

French, country, renditions,

now me, chemical morphine

stupoured, few words per minute.

But the soup was stirred

and poured thickly onto plates,

doors opened and closed to

guests, phone calls made,

the piano played with Ethan,

'Blue Sky Ahead' piece.

A day was done. By me.