On Boxing Day, when I was 45,
I walked to BART in arid winter cold,
considering requirements to thrive,
enumerating what could be controlled.
I saw a piece of broken crutch, a bit
that someone tossed where only bushes catch.
It made a stick a foot in length with tip
of red, as if it were a giant match.

That may have been an omen I should stay
at home, instead of out beneath a sky
December-chilled. I’d build a fire, play
too many games alone, and maybe try
a recipe I never thought to cook,
but I was boxed by my appointment book.