How easily happiness begins by dicing onions,
You dice. You cry. You get it out.
For a dash of drama, put “The Warsaw Concerto”
on the stereo. It peels your outer layers
and pries open Sunday confessions.
The outer rim of the song, like the onion
is strong. A torrent of spice and tears
runs wildly over my cutting board.
The heart is splayed open with the horns’ fortissimo.
When the onions are transparent and mellow,
the Concerto has dwindled down to a soft, still voice,
the piano sings and the onions whisper in the pan.