The stalemate was over corned-beef hash.
As sunlight faded in the kitchen,
family life went on elsewhere without me.
It was a meal without grace or benediction.
My mind got up from the table many times.
I was back at their wedding,
my little cellophane bag of confetti, tight
in my hands—
I refused to throw any, because it was mine.
I thought back to an even earlier household:
Mother left me there
with another man. I looked a lot like him.
The front door slammed.
Hash-standoff must have ended: here I am.
Russell Rowland continues his trail work for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust, and his practice of writing a poem every day.
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