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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 heat’s 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 and 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.
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