Here’s a poem I wrote while I sat in my Abuelita’s kitchen in Bolivia. I was moved by all absence of the body’s usual desperation to having to do something.

Manana

The clinking of cups as the water washes

Grime, dirt, crumbs of original Bolivian cuisine

Is comforting to one seeking silence.

There is no incessant chatter as the cupboard

Doors swing against chocolate-colored chairs.

The light grating of cloth against a wet plate—

The crackle and crinkle of plastic bags

And the quick tinkle of paired utensils

Beckon any desperately bored ear to Home.

Footsteps pad upon cold unkind cement

To manana’s destination where

Fortitude is a given and hardship a reality.