This is a smart time, I think as I sit and eat a sandwich in the kitchen.
Tomorrow is sorted, the hayracks ready, the tools even stowed in the shed,
your magnificent culinary creation needs one more hour,
(no, bread and ham won’t ruin my appetite, I don’t want to pig myself later).
Actually, I could even go for a swim, do a length of the lake,
come back tuckered and hungry, hang the towel out to dry,
but that wouldn’t be fair on you. What’s that you’ve got there,
I ask, as I absently chop carrots and fingers, an eye on the yard,
ah, turnips, a figure on the road, a dog bark next door, pork fatback baking.
Evening fare is a bite to eat, as well as a moment between day and night.
Turnips and time, pork and posterity, man and his life on the road between day and night.