Richard L. Matta
Wax Paper
An Uber drops me at a cliffside park where I sit beneath a tree. Waves crash—merciless and repetitive. After the hospital stay, after long months of rehab, comes the realization: I’ve become a spectator of who I used to be.
In my backpack, a flashback from childhood—a frozen roll of homemade chocolate chip cookie dough. I made it last night. Same recipe I used as a kid. Back then, I’d disappear for hours, hiking alone from sunrise to sunset.
If anyone asked, I’d say I was out playing with friends.The taste is still there—butter, oats, and sugar. The crunch of walnuts and chocolate. Time buzzing faintly behind my teeth. A few pelicans pass overhead. I feel the prick of a succulent plant as the dough softens in my hand.
chaplain’s visit…
the sparrows we hear
through the pane
opening from a book
he unwraps in silence
About the Author
Richard L. Matta grew up in New York’s Hudson Valley, attended university, practiced forensic science, and now lives in San Diego. Some of his haiku, tanka and haibun are in Modern Haiku, Frogpond, Akitsu Quarterly, Bottle Rockets, and Presence. His long-form poetry is found in various journals, including Gyroscope, Dewdrop, Ancients Path, and Healing Muse.