'What the Living Do" ...

                    

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been plugged 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 door shut in the cold.  What you

     called that yearning.

What you finally gave up.  We want the spring to come and

     winter to pass.   We want

someone 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 am speechless:

I am living.  I remember you.

Poem By Marie Howe

By Tom Keough