Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. /Â And the Drano wonât work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up /
waiting for the plumber I still havenât called. This is the everyday we spoke of. /Â Itâs winter again: the skyâs a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through /
the open living-room windows because the heatâs on too high in here and I canât turn it off. /Â For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, /
Iâve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those /Â 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 /Â whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kissâwe 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, /Â say, the window of the corner video store, and Iâm gripped by a cherishing so deep /
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that Iâm speechless: /
I am living. I remember you.
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