Is there anyone you'd like to punch in the face
more than the man who spent the weekend
cleaning his closet? So smug to be finally free
of the burden of false hope, and
those khakis that fit five years ago.
His shirts hang logically, stripes with the stripes,
collar buttons of the oxfords all facing north,
bowling shirts and other weekend trifles
waiting quietly way back in the dark.
He holds the door open and looks upon it
as an orchard gravid with bright fruit,
a marble city sleeping in the desert night.
A pleasing order. The craft of his own hands.
Nowhere is there dust. You won't find it
even in the corner by his skates.
Tonight he will sleep on sheets
that smell as clean as all the church days of his childhood.
The plants on every windowsill are watered
and he will live the life of the monk,
the Spartan, the man who calls his mother every day.
Until he wakes up tomorrow.
Mark Aiello
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