An Act of Love

Years ago when life was innocent
setting the table was an act of love.
I would look out the window and see

a future of broken dishes,
the stale smell of malt and whiskey,
or feel the prick of a needle

.

No, my gaze didn’t see that far out
around curves and high hills,
inside potholes down hell holes.

Setting the table was an act of love.
Now looking out between iron bars
I yearn to perform that act of love.