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Two decades have passed
since they started this monthly
marching through my life.
To you, the story will seem bland, or sympathetic
at best. I still have trouble remembering
I will cross back into normal life in a day, two days.
Til then, the water pipes squeal with someone’s hostile flushing
and the phone won’t stop asking its insipid question.
Suppose this poem were about Spring-- would I
insert grape hyacinths and daffodils, the planting
of snow and snap peas, the bounding cheer of wet dogs, how
the light adds daily to its habitual lingering? I can’t imagine
why. Instead, I’ve set aside this image: The
flutter of florescence everywhere-- a thousand moths battering
at the light bulb in my brain.
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