My middle-aged elbows rest
on the edge of a table--
finish worn away
by 20 years of scribbling, scrubbing
and small acts of creative destruction.
The kitchen counters display
promising watermelon, bananas, and limes,
letters: requests and balances
of children's bank accounts,
filled bit by bit by
putting and taking dishes,
wiping dog nose smears from windows,
wiping floors, toilets, sinks, mirrors,
and pushing a lawn mower.
There are clean and dirty
cloths and rags,
a tin tea set
for parties with real and imaginary friends,
notebooks, journals,
books of scripture and fanciful stories,
swimming towels, bath towels,
the top part of
a damp, polka-dot cherry swimsuit
with ruffles,
allergy management supplies,
and Chinese flash cards.
A heavy vase--
recently emptied of roses, lilies and orchids,
gross display of affection
from one imperfect spouse to another--
waits to be tucked away in
a corner
of a cupboard
with others.
There is hand sanitizer
and a child-sized mask,
protection
amid a pandemic.
All signs of
living,
chaos,
striving,
and love.
