Poem for Today - May 8, 2014
WHAT THE LIVING DO
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some
utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous,
and the
crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and
the sunlight pours through
The open living room windows because the heats on too
high in here, and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in
the street, the bag breaking,
I've
been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly
bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I
thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What
you finally gave up. We want the spring
to come and the winter to pass.
We want whoever to call or
not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more any then more of it.
But there are
moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
Say the window of the
corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing
hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living, I
remember you.
© Marie Howe (1950 - )
No comments:
Post a Comment