“Strand after strand
of her unruly hair
descends to the floor, where they drift
into corners and clot around doors.
I tell her, I warn her,
‘You don’t keep the house.
Tidying’s my job, but fair is fair:
Think of me when you’re cutting or combing
Your hair.’ And she will
for a time, but slovenly ways
trump a kind heart; so year after year,
to immaculate floors,
Fall brown hairs, then gray hairs,
then glimmering white–these pepper-salt
mouse nests on shelves and on stairs.”
It was all long ago. Now my room is scrubbed bare.
(Note: This poem is supposed to be centered all the way down, the lines breathing around a central spine. But I haven't been able to figure out how to do anything with poem formats other than the straight align left. If anyone who reads this knows, could you let me know...either email me directly if you have my address, or ask my publisher–Dan Wells at Biblioasis–to forward the message? Once in a while, I might like to take a pinstep away from the Good Left Rock.)