Cracked Muffins

My refrigerator forgets to make ice for a week at a time,

and then,

one day,

it is like a miracle and there is ice again.

The oven runs a little cool.

Muffins do not get a cracked top,

and potato slices only bake a nice crisp if I forget about them

and leave them in for too long.

Every morning I wake up and decide

it is too dark,

too cold,

I am too sore to ride,

and then some point when I’m in the shower,

I change my mind and think

maybe I could do it.

Then while brushing my teeth I consider the layers I will need.

Depending on any particular week,

the trash does not get picked up,

and instead sits and festers at the end of the driveway,

lures in the curious wildlife,

dog urine,

a fine layer of frost.

When the wind blows,

you can hear the tin cans,

glass bottles,

and pie tins.

Sometimes I forget fresh chicken-warm eggs

in my pocket,

and I take them to work with me,

hang them in my jacket behind the office door

for the entire day.

Then ride home

gingerly caressing their shapes gently knocking together

as I pedal.

Even a crisp fall day, is imperfect.

Dean at Home: The Pandemic Blog