a poem a day for a year #8

I rage against dirty floors and clutter and mess

I say things that I do not mean

and then my husband will calmly tell me

that someday we will look back upon these days

right here

these shit poor dirty days

and cry for them

like they were the golden days

only he doesn't say it like a sap

or a hoo hoo

he just tells me facts and I look at him

and quickly my mind sees us old

and sad

missing the small people

thrashing about

climbing to us

trying to take it all


and I think poetry is not all about sex and love

and the curve of a hip

and the scent of a head of hair

and the noise of a heart

but more about death and the way our life

gets all goddamn fussy and makes us forget

to sit down on the floor

and just open our arms

fling them open

to the next good thing

over and over like

an assembly line of pleasure