I make collard green rollups with avocado,
carrots julienne, tofurky, and Sriracha—
sliced on the diagonal. I forget whether
he writes or paints his poems these days.
He declares art is a perched walnut
then launches a story about squirrels—
enough to make Dostoyevsky blush.
We drink lime water from canning jars.
The cat curls in his lap, its tail flitting
like a broken windshield wiper as he
tells a winding story of Two-Finger John
at the riverbed. We watch the sun die
behind the grove—always a good ending
for lunch. Rexroth sleeps in the car.