Out of Decay Grows

Folding blue towels too many weeks in a row; I inch dust off my typewriter
nod: too long, too long.

We spring backhand, forehand over lawns, throwing Frisbee for the dog and grinning smiles like still gap-toothed but instead yellowed- not quite certain if we were kids.
playing loud our favorite songs and singing them to each other’s faces.
Our paychecks are ice-cream and long car rides to cities we'd like to live in; you address me 'darling', I I call you Mr. Grant and we
decorate vast kitchens in our heads spinning like records we've played
since we were tall enough to lift the needle; I hand you my hand.

In the wintertime, I got up earlier than you and defrosted my car
which was missing a window.
I made coffee and breathed in your ear to have a good day, and wonder:
do you take that advice to heart?

Now it's spring again. You shaved your hair and we still lay together in the same bed.
I ask can I be your shelf? I'd like for you to keep things resting in me. I'd like to house your words.

I remember: when I sprained my ankle last summer and you held me up. I will help you reach light bulbs, will help you paint houses, will plant you a tree
so that in the fall we can watch it change colors decay;
exclaim in red shock upon the ground and we will shrug,
smile: say, well, it will always come back in the spring.