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