The rightness of it, the gladdening order! A sheen
of waxed wood to walk on, infinite books
to take out of, put back in, infinite niches and nooks.
There is a spice rack, there is a Shoji screen.
No other lives here. So placid. I glide unseen
from room to room, dressed or undressed, my looks
of no import. Here I am whole, here where green
grows the ficus and phones are off their hooks.

The phone is ringing, there’s a flood of clutter,
the plants are brown, the heat pipes clank and drone.
A darling husband leaves no towel unthrown.
That place where my soul in solitude may flutter
is fantasy. Still I fuel it, sniff its fragrance like cologne,
roll my tongue around its substance, richer than butter.