Little Brown Pork Chop

The Gooseberry harvest is falling to the ground, and
a friend places a Suzuki Omnichord on the table
in front of me.
It’s a little brown pork chop.
It smells, she says.

The children play,
They make requests.
They talk in the background
while the tape rolls.

I pour cups of milk,
put my finger to my lips
as the boy says, momma, come quick!

The guitars and the pork chop
and the children and their needs
arranged and in tune.