I woke to the sound of rain, and lay there
canceling
parts of the day. Now I couldn't patch
the leaking roof; something funny
about that,
one of the temporary pleasures
of the mind. My wife was still asleep.
I wanted to disturb her,
tell her about the irony of rain
and Saturday mornings and leaks
I put on my robe,
went to the window. In the grayness
there were different shades of gray.
I don't know why
that seemed sad, or why
I suddenly wanted to pull apart
the curtains,
let some cruelty in. The rain
was steady and this was spring.
There were things
to be happy for, the flowers for example,
the tree frogs and their alto songs.
I wanted to tell my wife
about the grass as if she'd never
heard of grass, the crazy speed at which
it grows in May,
a few things I'd thought of and noticed
since the night had passed. But her sleep
was persistent,
a deep and now annoying sleep.
I went downstairs. The cat was waiting
to be fed and had practiced
certain gestures of affection,
which I loved, so I'd open the can.
It was understood;
if he'd purr and rub his head
against mine, all anxiety would end,
the morning
become languorous and his.
I put the coffee on and broke the eggs.
It was the wooden spoon,
the flame and me against the protoplasmic
sprawl; we made the center hold.
I wanted my wife
down here, I wanted her in some usual
place doing some usual things.
What I had to say to her
was so insignificant only she would understand.
I sat down to eat. The rain picked up.
A man could die
just like that. Or begin to slide.
I started to clank the dishes,
make some noise.
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