A Single Artichoke

By: Andrew Dahl

There is something to be said for

the sound of the wind.

Something to be said for a throbbing

quiet. And then,

of course,

there is the keen ache of

a pure loss. Something unconfused,

unentangled. Like the death

of a pet.

There is something to be said for

even

a single steamed artichoke and an

isolated glass of white wine.

Soren rubbed the condensation

on the outside of the glass,

the drops fusing

and tumbling.

He looked out the window,

saw the tarp over the dog house

flapping in the wind,

valiantly. The urgent

quiet pressed

against his ears.