The Low Light

I bought a bag of lemons because they were cheap,

and piled them in a bowl with a chip on the rim.

The apartment is quiet and the shadows are deep,

but the kitchen is glowing as the daylight goes dim.

I cracked an egg and watched the bright yolk slide

across the black iron of a cold, seasoned pan.

There’s a warmth in the room that I don't have to hide,

a yellow kind of peace for a tired, working man.

It’s in the peeling paint and the butter on the toast,

and the way the old bulb buzzes near the sink.

It’s the color of the things that I value the most,

when I finally have the time to sit down and think.