You can check his progress on the app, but he can't seem to find the address you've given. The icon of the little car Jesus is presumably driving tracks little ant steps across your phone screen. Then it slowly backs up and circles around the block. Still winter; dark still thick as oblivion. Despite complaints to the city, no one's come to replace the busted street light— the only one on this stretch. You've already taken the wreath from the door and unhooked the baubles from where they swung above the front steps all Christmas, though one neighbor seems to have no plans to take off the colored lights blinking along the edge of the roof of his house on the corner. From the street, you know your little Cape Cod doesn't stand out in any special way. Last summer's fresh layer of paint on aluminum siding— "Mediterranean Olive"— blends into the sparse but shadowed foliage. But this is home now; after many years of pining, finally you find it hard to imagine home anywhere else. As Charles Simic said in "Hotel Insomnia," Mostly, though, it was quiet. You can't count how many meals you've made in the apron-sized kitchen, which you're trying to make more airy with the addition of some green. So now the monstera vine is happy, spilling its perforated hearts down the side of a cupboard. Tonight though is Friday, and all you want is a hot meal you didn't have to make yourself. Basic, but with a salty, tangy sauce. When the bell rings, it means Jesus has delivered the goods
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.