2 December 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 4
What I'm Here For
Today, it's the rise
and billow of sheets
on the clothesline, the necessary
rectangles snapped, bleached
linen fixed with a pin.
It's jam on every kitchen
washcloth and broom-resistant
crumbs that multiply across the floor.
It's the newspaper I pick up
thinking only to read the letters
to the editor, and set back down
two hours later, my fingers
dusty as if I've read the walls