January 11, 2022

in the shower, I contemplate dinner and mortality

and will the ground turkey thaw in time and I should do something with the cauliflower
before it goes and what would it be like to be on the third floor of an apartment building
in the Bronx as a hallway fills with the kind of smoke that knocks the sense out of you
and how long was the space heater on before the flames came and as water cascades luxuriously
on my shoulders, I realize I know nothing about Gambia, whose émigrés
lost children in the fire, not even a report from 4th grade social studies, not even the flag
or the languages, or dishes like jollof rice and caldo and a couscous pudding called thiakry,
which I discover only after I’ve gotten dressed and only because when I see photographs
of ash-faced firemen in New York City all I want to know is where they will all
sleep tonight and who will tend to their unspeakable hunger?