I was making a roast.

The smell wafted from the kitchen into the living room,

through the yellow curtains and into the sunlight.

Bread warmed in the oven,

and in my oven mitt, I managed to forget

that I’d ever punched someone in the face.

It seemed so long ago, I might not even have done it.

I went out into the yard before dark

and saw last year’s rake on the lawn.

It was a cheap metal one

that tore up the old grass.

I did that for a while.

When I went back in the house,

the roast was burned black

and the bread was hard.

I sat on the couch and watched it get dark.

I was getting hungry, but I felt afraid

of seeing the refrigerator light go on.

Then I would have to turn on other lights,

and then what would I do?

I heard a car pass once in a while.

I thought about a time on vacation

when I bought a newspaper and tomatoes

from a supermarket I’d never heard of.

I remembered an old bathing suit I had,

but I couldn’t think of what happened to it.

I could move away.

I could get in the car right now

and drive all night,

as soon as I had a sandwich.

Turkey, tomato, mayo,

Swiss, lettuce.  It was exciting.

I still had my shoes on.  I drove to a truck stop.

It was bright inside and I loved the world.

I bought a sandwich and ate it from my lap while I drove.

When I pulled up to my house it was quiet.