He never boils the potatoes with the lid on.
They are left there all white and animate,
blubbering into the steam. Their sound is
like a boat engine half way out at sea
with the old man missing. I like lids placed
firmly down. No tell tale sign of what’s inside.
Even when the pressure underneath is lifting
lids—I like it. There is no big deal, what is
lifted must come down again. Afterwards, lids
get forgotten about. In the wash up, they might
get done or they might get stored away, as is.
If we look eyeball to eyeball, it will not stop
him disregarding lids but maybe it will stop him
losing sight of not wanting to look bone idle
in a body where there are pauses and where making
sense is a fragile thing. There are days when one is
touchy about being in one’s own skin, while holding
a defective poem that would start but would not finish.