What the Living Do

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 heats 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. And yesterday, hurrying along those
Wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cod, what you called that yearning

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
Whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss we want more and more and then more of it

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass
Say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

For my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you