Sometime After Breakfast

Poetry by Will Walker, Summer 2015


Some days what’s best said is nothing. Do the dishes.

Let the water rushing from the kitchen tap

and spattering in your fifty-year-old white porcelain sink

be your soundtrack, tuneless music, an aqueous rat-a-tat

little snare drum of busy bubbling strict time running


on and on, telling you all about its full life, born

aboard a turbulent cumulus, accrued in the Sierra Nevada

in a hard, white winter attended by the tough mugs

of massive boulders and the ministrations of a forest

of firs, whole monkish colonies bearing witness

to snowmelt and trickle, a white field dissolving


into sedge and grass and wild orchids, a sea

of Indian paintbrush, phalanxes of forget-me-nots.

Then the deep absorbent meditation of earth,

and the engineered fugue of dam and pipes and valves,

followed by the burst of daylight and this happy exit down

a copper pipe, headed on a journey to begin again.


Will Walker lives in San Francisco with his wife, Valerie, and their dog. He is a former editor of the Haight Ashbury Journal. You can read more at 

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