You don't come around,
over her basket of clean laundry
below the horizon of clothesline
and rose gold. She doesn't know
what tone to take anymore so
her fingers do the talking now,
sifting through her apron pocket
of wooden clothespin soldiers.
When you ask her
where her shoes are,
she tells you finally,
that she's outgrown
Turns out she's been wearing her
battered, torn snowboots to class
for two months, maybe three.
She's been wearing them
all the time, whatever the weather.
"Are you crying?" asks my songbird.
She leans in my bedroom doorway wrapped in a bath towel. Damp and pale and shining, she has just emerged from what she would call an "epical" (epic + magical) shower, where she's been singing for 45 minutes.
he mug of white warmed milk. The overbred, ribboned dog. The kiss unkissed, or too dry, too tame. This life belongs to the wretched, the dirty. There's no sense in mending it, not now. Your life is no less or more a life than that of the woman hanging her husband's bleached boxers in the sun for the sixtieth, seventieth, hundredth time. What she remembers, you will never know.
ear, I made a pot roast last night in the slow cooker. I added vegetables, because vegetables are en vogue, if the food shows I watch are to be trusted. I shaved parsnips and carrots and made them smooth. I tried to imagine your face, the soft skin below the prickly indignant stubble. Maybe the only stubble you have is on your legs. Dear, if you would only write or call or find me in this great big world, I would know such things.
You can tell the sun to fuck off all you want, but it won't. I was here first, it will only argue, and you don't want to get into THAT conversation again.
This just in:
King Richard III has been sleeping off
the winter of his discontent just below
the concrete of a municipal parking lot
I drained the last of your whiskey bottle tonight.
I could not find the bone you insisted you'd already
thrown my way, or I'd have gnawed on that too,
to take the edge off—or create one.
The traffic light is a bullshitter, gives me just enough time
to fall hard for the red. No matter what I do, no matter what
I say, the green's on its way and my job is to move along,
quit my staring.
IT GOES LIKE THIS [IN THE SUNNY ROOM AT THE MILL]
At this very moment in time, Isabella Cosette Flora Wilhelmina von Matternhaus the Only and Ever is being unreasonably reasonable for a puppy of thirteen weeks of age.
I catch her in the act of being unreasonably reasonable all the time. Right now, she is relaxing reasonably on her little round bed in front of the electric faux-woodstove. She seems to enjoy the flickering electric flames (as do I, as did Sir James) and the warmish if anemic blast of air emanating from the unit.