Snap

The smell of an egg frying
saturates our house. The white blinds
in the kitchen are open,
the windows raised, rare for night time.
Outside, hundreds of wet frogs can't keep still.

Right after breakfast it's time to open
presents. Glint from the icicles blinds
us worse than the sun sometimes.
My grandmother was frying
sausage upstairs with teeth like stainless steel.

To an alcoholic, time
is irrelevant. You're frying
bologna for dinner. You took down the blinds.
You told me your grandfather had a still
and made moonshine. I left the back door open.

I'm sure that if I stay still
long enough, I can project my quiet, one second at a time
to the other side of the house. My closet is open
and the orange shards of streetlight slip through my blinds.
A crash from the kitchen: a cast iron frying pan.

An egg is frying. The blinds are open.
This is the time for inaction. Be still.