Wishbone Half-eaten chickenlying on white serving platequartered potatoeschunks of carrotscelery toowe tell storiesand laugh about the dayyour little finger is locked around the wishboneso is mineI pretend to make a wishclose my eyesmumbling my lipsthat’s the way I faked out the nunspretending to say the rosaryso they would leave me aloneyour face is so determinedyou win the wrestling matchlifting your piece of chicken bone above your head in victoryI know better than to askwhat did you wish forsecret desires of the heart are not to be sharedorthey won’t come trueeveryone knows thatyou clean the dishesI turn on the TVlying on the couchlistening to you make musicwith running waterand closing cupboard doors.
Robert Hobkirk, Somewhere Poetry Grows Wild Under the Eucalyptus
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