The door isalready terriblyheavy,its PUSHbe-liesits PULL,intentionally poorlydesignedso that the effortequals my give andI have none tospare you,rushing toward theclosing gap,oranges tumbling fromyour bag.
There’s something, I think, a flap
or flange on a plane that lets its
fuel tanks hold hands across the
wingspan of a particularly strenuous
crossing, and I think about that
flap whenever I make you laugh, or
when you order the Chinese take-out,
and I pick it up.
Once you’ve squozen the recommended
allotment of shampoo relative to hair-girth
into your palm, be careful when letting go
the bottle for its pop-back-reset,
or the mintfused molecules will panic and,
with eucalyptous hands, cling to each
other in a desperate, schlurpy retreat back
into the globuly hive, leaving only an
invigorating, sulfite-free residue in the air,
your hair plastered, and unwashed.
Like the deep-cleansing morning I spent on the
front porch with my coffee and my dog and
suddenly remembered the day my mother changed
the locks on all the doors and my father,
and I hadn’t even showered.
Dearest Neighbor, I did, indeed, see you
back into your garbage cans.
As Caravaggio saw Narcissus, or as my
parents saw me minor in poetry.
when in a moment
of inattention your
most precious and richly
stained coffee mug falls shattered
to the floor it knows only
that it is broken
and cannot cry
wishes it could