Visitors
I’d ask you in but the place is a mess,
really needs to be painted, vacuumed,
the giant bolt of fabric for new curtains
lolls in the corner of the hallway,
uncut, a good intention mismanaged.
Say the expected lie “It doesn’t matter”.
We both understand you’ll tell someone
the scene: unfolded laundry on the chair,
the scattered Sunday paper, used dishes-
details you will align as if they were ducks.
Reconciled to this dynamical system,
it is a balagan with nuvobohemian flair,
exchanging traditional for quirky kitsch:
the two-foot decorated Christmas tree is iconic.
still up in April, unlit in deference to Easter,
Company never sticks, or is it the spectre
shuffling backwards toward the kitchen
who keeps the conversation indifferent?
Our grandmothers would be horrified,
kneeling women who scrubbed sidewalks.
I won’t bend my knees, not even to pray.
There are photos of when I was single:
candles in the bathroom, arrangements,
leaning out for love, they will lean that way
forever, you should have seen me then
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