This morning, I propose we sweep the tile
And clean the kitchen. If there's any time,
We'll mount the shower curtain too; then I'll
Compose a sonnet in the shower, rhyme
A couple lines with lemon-scented bleach
And patchy scrubby-pads, and dream of bare
-foot floors, all smooth and mothering, where each
Of us adjusts the AC, says a prayer
For thermostats, and eats a snack: an apple
For me, pink ladies dipped in bourbon; almonds
(Unflavored), your communion in the chapel
Erected on our swept-up floors, an Osman
Basilica in citrus gardens, owning
No antipodes nor sins that call for stoning.
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