two feet

I wrote this poem (well, started to, anyway) in my head
this morning while (naked) scrubbing the shower, (it was different
then, than it is now)
after the second day painting the bathroom
(you asked me how it looked,
I said, really green)
and after you had left for the day,
two days,
and bits of poems came to me,
in a potpourri collage shower of confetti fragments
(if confetti can be words)

your absence goes through me like thread through a needle,
stand still, stand in front of the light
the barn door slams, persistent as remorse after anger and shouting,
I build each one of my days out of hope, and I give that hope your name
I have always been alone

and I wondered if I should step out, and wipe my feet
on Hannah’s towel,
and try to remember it all
and each little bit

but I didn’t, and then I peeled back the blue painter’s tape
from the trim and cabinets,
and cursed it as it left is thin dry fragments behind
but I (patiently) scraped them with the putty knife
and reassembled the door knob
and slid the shelf back into its place, (two feet on Hannah’s towel,
I know I said I wouldn’t do it without you,
but we Strategized, and there it is)
and hung Klimt’s bathing mother and nude infant back
in its place and the Japanese farmer
and his water buffalo

and then I taught my seven piano students
and made cappellini with spinach and bacon
(and lemon) for dinner
and texted my sister about my mom in the hospital
and watched three reruns of sex and the city and

the house is quiet now, but the
dog keeps barking at every sound and shadow

we all feel better when you’re home

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