The Pasta-rollers

I am sent an ordinary photograph.
It shows
a kitchen in beige and white,
blonde wood countertops.
A row of glass jars, with shiny caps.
In the foreground, a boy and his father
are making pasta. They wear
matching orange sweatshirts
and concentrate on the dough.
There is nothing special about it.
Scenes like this are played every night
in a hundred, a thousand households.
I stare at it all day.