AN ACCORDION, I THINK
(a poem of privilege on a good day)
I’ve got all the sunrise my eyes can gather.
Every time I need a breath of air,
and every time I need to exhale a stale breath
I just do it
and there’s a place for it to go.
When I am thirsty, there is water,
all manner and mixture of foods for when I hunger;
black-eyed susans, blue-eyed grass
swaying in a puff of wind
when nothing else will soothe me.
I hear you downstairs;
you don’t sing or shuffle your feet,
but I hear music,
an accordion, I think.