*
This evening, Mr. Bondo makes stew,
a *boeuf bourguignonne* with good burgundy
because it compliments the smell of dead leaves,
those falling as they die, letting sunshine
hit the house from the east in November.
He will have to rake, but thinks he will wait
until the trees are bare, until *the sun’s*
*critical angle is significant and marked*
*transition occurs*. He read of this
somewhere and will apply it in his life.
His neighbor is playing music outdoors,
tacking lights to his eaves. Smell of manure
for winter rye lingers, so Bondo goes inside
for the onion, bay leaf, thyme, the soupy mix
of tomato, oils, and beef. He sniffs and decides
there will be no tree this year, no fussing
with lights or the history of ornaments.
Fainter smells of carrot and mushroom
follow him around the house, piquant
green pepper, perhaps the water and salt.
- *from Mr. Bondo's Unshared Life*
*
*
-- Jim
Sol Literary Magazine: http://solliterarymagazine.com/
The Salt River Review: http://www.poetserv.org
https://sites.google.com/site/jamesvcervantes/home
http://www.hamiltonstone.org/catalog.html#temporarymeaning
http://www.fieralingue.it/documenti/mr_bondo.pdf
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamescervantes/
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