The Cabinet Is All the Rage

Too often we see one thing

With x-ray vision

Developing one thought

When reality makes us think of several thoughts

But reality can be drawn by the brick houses

Sitting on top of blueberry hills

Tickled with thin ferns and thicker dandelions

Then reality can photograph the rusted can of Progresso soup

Emptied by the mother upstairs who had to steam the bellies

Of her four children, whose gazes lived too short

And turned into a wide look at the cupboard

For the last few Triscuits or Chicken In the Biscuits

That one of the brothers ate

Out of sight

Into his hands