PLenty

In prison, Irene shared her meager bread.

All of them shared what they had,

like the ones who shared the loaves

and fishes, discovering plenty.

Someone stays for dinner, and somehow

there is always enough in the cupboard

and fridge, a way to make things stretch,

to imagine a meal into plenty. After

prison, Irene stayed very thin—enough

to eat was plenty, and gratefulness

the sauce. She worked in a hospital,

though they wouldn’t let her be a doctor

since her degree came from another country.

Any time I complain about anything now,

I feel guilty, ungrateful, so mostly I stop

complaining in advance, a good way to live.

I’d like a lifetime supply of insight, wisdom.

Patience, to pour like oil into cups borrowed

from my neighbors. Then we’d talk over

the fence when I returned them, or when out

walking our dogs, or discovering each other

in town on errands or watching the same play!

I’d invite one over for dinner. “What are we

having?” she’d ask, ready to help. “Well,

let’s see,” I’d say, standing at the open cupboard.

— Babs