Lares and Penates

The suburbs? Well, for heaven’s sake   

who wouldn’t choose the absolute   

convenience? Cheap, a quick commute,   

and close to Lowe’s, a Steak ’n Shake,   

our own police and DMV,   

          a library, a lake.   

                     

Esteemed domestic diplomats,   

we trump conundrums (His and Hers)   

and smother any fuss that stirs   

the air of habit habitats.   

It’s not an easy job; in short,   

          we wear a lot of hats.   

And so, we’re grateful, from the street   

you’d miss the issues we’re ignoring:   

termites and week-old dishes mooring,   

barnacled with shredded wheat,   

the bunch of brown bananas stuck   

          with a yellow Post-it: Eat!

We dictate chores, but understand   

the clock moves faster than we do   

and focus on those old and blue   

dilemmas of the second hand:   

inheritance, ill-fitting pants,   

          smoke, rumors, foreclosed land.   

Winters, we help keep track of taxes,   

sort copies Xerox-hot in piles,   

or prune unruly hanging files   

(a fixture of our weekend praxis).   

There’s always something. In this house,   

          only the cat relaxes—

because the clutter drives a need   

for more, more room, more hours, food,   

more use of the subjunctive mood . . .   

tomorrow, yes, we must succeed   

in keeping peace and making time   

          to garden, and to read.   

Still, every spring our porches spawn   

insects we can’t identify   

and ferns turned freeze-dried octopi.   

They spill into the arid lawn   

with diasporic fliers, clover   

          and choirs of woebegone   

house sparrows whose incessant cheeping   

recalls the gloomy Ubi sunt,   

our soundtrack to the nightly hunt   

for whatever is downstairs, beeping.   

(As if the sleepless wanted some   

          reminder they’re not sleeping.)   

But don’t fret; clarity, if brief,   

is possible. The best folks see   

an artfulness in entropy—   

the rust, the dust, the bas-relief   

of Aquafresh-encrusted sinks.   

          So when, in disbelief,   

                     

a lady skims new catalogs,   

convinced her luster’s fading, faded,   

and, afraid to end up jaded,   

doughy in orthotic clogs,   

she gracefully accepts her fate   

          and rises early. Jogs.