Saturday, November 15, 2008

Setting things in order

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