July, just dusk, and muggy as hell. Thank God
the central air still works. I’ve shredded chicken,
mixed in black beans, onions, peppers, cumin.
Heating it to meld the flavors. Ann’s
upstairs on Zoom, and Trey’s zonked in the living
room. The warm dishwasher’s gurgle swirls
below my Coltrane playlist. Did I mention
that I’m drinking beer? You know: it helps.
I wish for little more than what I have.
Desire is the root of all our suffering,
right? We try to simplify ourselves
to nothing. Fine. But it’s impossible.
If we’re alive, there’s human residue:
A smooth then screechy streaming saxophone.
Aroma from the frying pan. This poem.
About the Author
Thomas Zimmerman (he/him) teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review (https://thebigwindowsreview.com) at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His poems have appeared recently in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Sixpence Society, and Yellow Mama. His latest book is the poetry chapbook The House of Cerberus (Alien Buddha Press, 2022).