For the first time in two & a half years
I live in a family — three generational —
laundry, washing dishes, cooking meals
for five. The chaos percolates chores
that take my mind off my mind, things
to do when reading fails to suffice,
when winter rains keep me inside
after the poem’s dreamed & drafted. Long
hours — I would count them — before
my conscience allowed me to open a beer,
before I closed the shades that looked down
on a neighbor woman who hacked up
her lungs nightly before team medical
carried her off. I fear her change was fatal.
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