Ars Poetica: Married Version
A white chip of moon rules the sky
as I pad softly across the driveway,
open the door of my house, and step in.
Weaving through whisking thumps
of the dog's tail, scattered crayons
and dolls, I make my way
past the door of my daughter's room,
and into the kitchen where the coffee maker
is making its final gurgles. I pour a hot cup,
add cream, and stir. From here,
at this early hour, my study is no longer
a garage. Its lighted window
looks more like the back of a bronze chariot
drawn by winged, see-through horses,
and that pulsing drone is an echo
of a distant horn, and not the refrigerator.
Is that what she sees from this vantage at the sink
when I am writing and framed in that light?
Am I a clever, leaf-crowned god stroking his beard
and stitching the void with electric lines?
Or, as she's scrubbing dried egg
from a plate, twisting a can opener,
does she see something else? A beast, perhaps,
obsessed with writhing every morning
in its own shit, hairy, helpless, and beyond itself
under the great and glowing bone in the sky?
—Derek Sheffield