A Still Life

The red roses stand in a glass,
water pitcher on the granite

breakfast counter next to three
artistic bowls — one, a Native

American style bowl, a gift from
a relative; one, a Hagi style bowl

by an Asian artist; one, a wood
carved bowl found in a second

hand shop. Vine tomatoes rest
in a plastic, utilitarian bowl

on the granite counter below the
breakfast counter, a still warm

toaster sits next to the vine
tomatoes and a glass coffee pot

from a coffee maker rests on
a stove burner across from

the toaster, the vine tomatoes
between them. His wife sits

on the couch in front of a
glass sliding door outside

of which the sun bounces off
roof tiles; an empty coffee

cup sits on the end table next
to her and a plate with a few

bread crumbs on it rests on
the couch next to her and

the dog sleeps by her feet.
Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto

#2 plays softly on the old,
portable radio inherited from

their daughter when they first
moved in. He sits at the dining

room table taking in the glory
of the still life in his life.

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