What the Living Do
a poem by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged 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....(More)
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