Come Live With Me
You won’t find a wall and ceiling perpendicular.
Every board, crown molding and seam,
once right-angled, has gone to wonk.
Counters, where I’ll invite you to rest your shopping bags,
are a half-bubble off plumb. Watch the lemons roll.
The rose-colored roses have dried and faded to tan,
but the paintings hold their jungled tangle of colors,
bright ones.
The faucets won’t stop weeping, rust
has made a thousand pinholes in the pipes,
and the furnace has taken up singing.
Window frames have loosened their grip on the panes—
a cracked one fractures the weedy garden—you may feel
a draft at your neck.
I’ve emptied the ashes and swept the hearth for you,
but chimney swifts have made a home in their name-place.
The upholstery’s gone too saggy or too hard
and the floor is cold. We’ll lie on the bed.
Turn one another to spoons.