You twist the ads that come
in the mail for doorframes and peaches
into a Father’s Day bouquet.
I remove urine ring from toilet bowl.
Theo throws a tantrum over the brush dripping
in its little stand. The moment I close
the door, he wants out of the guest bedroom
where he had been so contentedly
building blocks. On our seven-year anniversary,
we drive him to the Burr Oak Woods
Nature Center where only one sticker per visit
is permitted. Alone in the bathroom I apply
mine to the inside cover of my notebook.
You attach yours to Theodore’s chest.
With so many options, we both pick
In the season of chainsaws, I hose
sawdust off the slide. Remove my T-shirt
and squeeze rainbows out of my spray bottle.
I watch the white welt of the mosquito bite
rise on my forearm. I have always been a problem
to myself. I has always been a problem to me.
After Theo steals my Contigo, I steal his.
Turnabout’s fair play. The difference is
I drink his water, he pours out mine
over the dusty pavement. I dunk my feet
in his kiddie pool, lawn-chaired in maple shade,
slip out of my Crocs and capsize the caddie
that contains his cups and sponges, his
I am always leaving
my fly open. Always in
a hurry to return. I reach out
in the dark and knock
over my glass of water
on the nightstand. Fall asleep
thinking I should drape
the towel over the bedpost.
Lili makes my folding
look very sloppy indeed
with her neatly stacks of bath
towels. What am I not
seeing? What am I choosing
not to see? How does the mind
know? How do I know
what to look for? In this jumble
of details falling
into place? Hazel eyes, hospital
pacifier, son, I slide
the newly folded shirt warm
below the cold ones
in the drawer I’ll warm before
I see it surface, re-