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Sunday is the Day When I don’t Make It to the Phone
a window in a room is facing the meadow
cut diagonally by the shadow of an apartment building.
i’m sitting at the table doing the usual stuff –
peeling potatoes, cutting them into thin strips
and watching the knife becoming totally white
with potato starch.
first the kitchen
and then the room is filled with heavy smell
of cooked kale
and boiling oil.
a smell annoying at first
which later i don’t register anymore,
just like my thoughts, or actually feelings
which are crawling around my mind
putting me into a state of some melancholic rapture.
when i walk to the window
there are women in aprons gathered in a sunlit meadow
cutting dandelions with knives from the soil.
a black poodle comes running by
followed by a child aged four or five.