Common things—filing my toe nails, the misshapen little piggie.
Nasty tasks–cleaning out the compost bucket, slime of rind and reason,
corkscrews which resemble crucifixes, talc, drink. Paperclips
that teenagers link into six-foot chains because they had nothing to do.
Odd, how often irritations begin in another’s boredom,
and, yes, the toilet stopped by my son because he was eating
grapefruit in the bathtub while soaking before his wrestling meet,
the percentage of baby-boomers who use the commode as a trash can.
The constant smile clamped on my jaw, that I-try-to-be-nice grimace
I know by anger. Here, have a cookie, you creep. The jeans I love with the patch
at the knee where I tripped and ripped. Extra combs
flicking everywhere, nutmeg bought for no reason. Space for socks,
time for Orion. Not much evidence to hang me, I’m careful about that.
All those little projects I began and didn’t finish. Notebooks
dashed off in high hopes and married to misspellings. And sometimes you,
I still think of you, you know who I mean, you are not here.