by Dick Allen

blackeyed Susans in a tin cup
over a grimy porcelain woodburning kitchen stove
beside the washing machine in my mother’s kitchen;
the way hands feel when you run cold water on them,
then dry both in a fluffy towel
on a ramshackle day, a day with some good in it, some bad,
but mainly a mess of things,
rickety, ramshackle, but contains
you without fanfare: an adequate day, not charming,
but enough for your needs, which are really very minor
and can be answered by the usual standby basics
of food and water, shelter,
            torn jeans
and a ragged old flag in the corner.