Evenings til midnight.
It’s white plastic walls
with brown tile floors
as the gray river freezes.
Some cooks burn, I’ve learned, some don’t,
they’re all in their supper years.
And knives scrape off burned onion scum.
The pot room’s a place for the mind.
The pot room’s a place for the mind.
I imagine a woman some nights.
My hands ache from lifting mats in the machine.
Speaking out loud to every last one.
Then my questions, they become …
How are your conditions?
God is all around us, where is your bedroom?
Into the future, with an old life.
This room is a place for the mind.
This room is a place for the mind …