Friday Wine & Poetry

New Haven

Now that I'm home,
manicuring my image
of maternal nurture,
mastering the moving parts
of a makeshift family machine,

I'll spend
a full two minutes
removing one cat hair that has woven itself
into the fibers of an afghan,

half an hour
arranging handsoaps and lotions,
all gifts, all half-used,
all so aromatic and unlikely
to ever make it onto skin.

It's the order that's therapeutic.

For afternoon coffee,
I take my time,
choose a mug that matches my mood
and what I'm wearing.
Today it's the thin lime stripe in my plaid pajama pants.

I don't always wear pajamas all day—

This time I was storm-soaked in the market parking lot.
(At home, I changed.)

And now
I find the time to write you,
to tell you everything I'm taking
and finding,
the ways I'm making it home,

and that the rush of passing traffic
is the same as the sound of shores
and fountains,
a constant waterless washing
pouring in the windows.