I think I could go on hours and hours with you
I needn’t worry because
You get it—the smell of dirt in the night air
Is just the same indeed as a rotting post in a field
In the sunshine with a baseball bat,
Hitting the ball once and getting out
And not taking a single base the entire season of little league.
I can find you when I want you with the spiders
In the bottoms of coolers with rust on their tops
Or leaves on grey concrete in suddenly chilly fall.
You get it—the way the cars sound driving on top of
Our roofs in their nearness and farness and middle distance.
The cast shadows of a Christmas parade
When the forest is so thick and lush and shaking with life.
You are the slats on the porch and the paint
Dripping between them and onto the ground.
You are the dusty feeling when I look up at the sun
And think of the faraway lands begging for our discovery
Looking through and in between the walls of this old house
The basements with their country bass lines and pickled
Cucumbers and folded up lawn furniture in the morning haze.
I look around me now to mosquitoes.
The television’s on and making noise and I can hear it from out here
There’s food in the refrigerator
Clutching and clinging and holding and passing
A moment in time.
Out here with the arched words
You used to hear
And now there’s a garden in your heart
That harvest blankets lazily strewn on the sofa
Cans and bottles hidden everywhere in the house
Putting a sheet up to cover your windows
All the sunglasses and clothes and cologne.
All this is neatly folded by
The laundress of choice.
She works her own hours.