When I slide my fingers
along the stainless, serrated blade
to clean the clinging crumbs
cut from Arnold Brick Oven bread
for my wife’s lunch of lacy Swiss,
why do I smile?
Is it the joy of remembering my kind deed -
she likes her sandwiches without the crust,
or is it the vague danger that exists?
I may cut myself as I pinch the blade, and bleed,
making her a meal with more of me than planned.
Must I grin and bear this life
on the edge of a sharp knife.
Dennis Hawkins is a 78-year-old poet who has been writing poetry for more than 60 years. His “Poem for a Summer Sunset” was published in the New York Times, City Room and recently, two of his poems were published in Password: the journal of very short poetry. He has also been published in Brooklyn Noir 3, a true crime collection of essays, recalling his days as a prosecutor. During his full-time work as a teacher, prosecutor, and anti-corruption advisor, he wrote poetry. Now that he is “retired,” he is able to focus on composing and editing his poetry.