I cook fresh artichoke—a head boiled bald,
butter melted in the day’s brag­ging heat.
The garlic bathes, my teeth glean flesh from each
earry lobe of bract, skin spit back to bin.
The choke is lonely. I leave it that way,
just watch­ing. The green on green on green on
green, the same spun colors as the window
of the train west or walked-in paths of my sleep.

Dad paints walls. My brother carries a drill.
Mum makes morale-iced buns. Photos arrive
on my phone like Bene­dic­tine bells, oh
lauds, each of these day-after-day morn­ings.
I am not lonely. I touch the plastic
between the people and produce at the till.