spaghetti cooking on the stove,
music cascading down your ears,
and the man stirs and stirs
the wooden ladle in the stainless-steel pot.
So listen to the small voice,
hear its notes, its cries, its songs,
the unraveling of your mind --
your thoughts of fear
your thoughts of death.
The cars stationed like sentinels,
their motors for once at rest.
The birds are hidden beneath their wings
and the animals finally at peace,
while we're waiting for a sign . . .
and everyone is the same.
So kneel before your gods --
pray to the father, the son and any spirit,
remember your angels, patient as ghosts,
perhaps then you will hear
the beating of your soul.