That Was Work, This is Too

My favorite thing about our new house

is all the work we suddenly have to do.

I loved each hour we spent scraping the gross

blue-green grime off the deck, and how my shoes

are still splotched by the light-brown stain we bought.

Now, when I look at the deck, it reminds me of

watching you pour coffee syrup on

the alternating layers of nut sponge

in the opera cake we took all day to bake

that nearly tasted as good as sausages

from Josephine’s, which nothing else can beat,

since we ate them after getting lost

among the goats in Chamonix. That was work.

This is too. It’s work that spells out: “I love you.”

Like this? You can read my poem, “The Difficult Thing About a Love Poem,” at the link below.