I see all the way down to the glass shelves
for the first time in over 
a maddening year.
Squinting into the nakedness,
the light is no longer crowded out by the 
sheer volume of highly processed
food-like substances
that wheedled their way into our cart.
Vegetables slide easily into the drawer
without the cunning art of origami.
Isn’t this what I’ve been waiting for?

Aren’t I happy now?

I go to work and come home and find the sink 
in the same state I left it in. 

Wasn’t it just yesterday that we were
squaring off at the Kitchen-Aid?
Your exuberance sending cocoa powder airborne,
coating the entire kitchen.

Why did I care about the mess?
Why did I try to compress your joy into
a neat little package that didn’t need to be wiped up after?
Why did I fight to mold the moments into
bite-sized pieces shaped to my specifications? 

Frigid air has wrapped around my toes. 
My thoughts slowed by the invading cold.
Ivory-knuckled grip on the handle,
but I can’t seem to close the door. 

In the pool of yellow light
my lottery fantasy of a house
with a climbing tree in a fenced backyard
and a playroom with a loft
and no shared wall so you can stomp up the stairs
shatters like a sheet of ice hitting pavement. 

You’re too old to climb trees.  
The world is your playroom now. 
And your new apartment has
a postage-stamp balcony that thrills you. 

Life has sped past my 
whimsical fancies and soft targets 
leaving me in need 
of a new dream to cast
a rosy glow on the unformed future.