That Was Work, This is Too
My favorite thing about our new house
is all the work we suddenly have to do.
I loved each hour we spent scraping the gross
blue-green grime off the deck, and how my shoes
are still splotched by the light-brown stain we bought.
Now, when I look at the deck, it reminds me of
watching you pour coffee syrup on
the alternating layers of nut sponge
in the opera cake we took all day to bake
that nearly tasted as good as sausages
from Josephine’s, which nothing else can beat,
since we ate them after getting lost
among the goats in Chamonix. That was work.
This is too. It’s work that spells out: “I love you.”
Like this? You can read my poem, “The Difficult Thing About a Love Poem,” at the link below.