You save the paper plates
like china, in a cabinet,
no one can touch, but you.
You play music on the record
player your grandmother left behind.
It sits in the corner by the window,
so people that walk by can notice it,
and be reminded of old songs.
When you cook I can smell
only the fire, born
out of electricity and metal.
Searing the meat like flesh
against the sun.
A dance on the graves
of cattle and hens.
On our walk we see an eagle
in a tree being dive bombed
by a couple of crows.
It is overcast, and you’d expect
a bird like that to be above the clouds.
It has chosen to be down here with us
for some reason.
Tolerating the locals
while tightening its gaze,
on you.
Teleporting Typewriter 