en route to the Statue of Liberty
He was brought here, no doubt, by parents aiming to hit all of Manhattan's
Even on a Tuesday morning, the flight is full. You are waiting at the gate
upstairs, where the trouble is
A faucet's slow, leaking torture. The hiss and hiccup of decaying radiators.
an inch of vinegar
You're saving it, apparently, for a salad you keep forgetting to make.
In the bathroom's mirrored cabinet, a flick of nail polish left at the bottom
of a small glass jar. There's a rumpled bag in the garage holding a clutch of dirt
that will likely not root the plant you've yet to purchase from the garden store.
These leavings, these leftovers, this clinging to the maybe useful - the house
is full of both optimism and neglect, a store of Lilliputian portions
incapable of meeting your large and shifting demands. The coupons
you are so scrupulously stockpiling. The last dregs of living room paint.
A spool of thread down to its final three loops. A candle with less than an hour left
you hold onto, nevertheless, certain you will need that light somewhere.
what we mean
I took out the trash to apologize. You made dinner to thank me for finishing
our taxes. I stayed on the couch for my bad mood. You went to bed early
to excuse yourself from yours. The croissant, a peace offering. Two loads of laundry,
repentance. The sidewalk you shoveled while I slept, something resembling
forgiveness. When the words fail, the house still rings with conversation,
its rooms like wide mouths, the unswept floors, a burgeoning embrace. A kiss waits
inside every spent tube of toothpaste. When the milk sours, we fall in love
all over again. So I am saving the garage for the hard argument.
You are keeping the basement
in your back pocket.