REALITY

Reality is a timid thing,
lingering in such thin slices,
the image of yesterday’s Hollandaise
threatens the chicken salad
I try to have for lunch today.

Hold my hands,
tell me I am a material thing,
bone and blood, whose uncertainty
will cease with the flesh.

Tell me you will be here tomorrow,
that I will come to comprehend
this life.
Tell me Hollandaise is
always appropriate.