The Way It Is

I worry about the water coming
Through the roof but not through the faucet
I am the last of my line, I am allowed
These thoughts: I will change

My shoes, run the vacuum cleaner three, four
Times a day. What answers have been
Given have been unsatisfactory. Too smooth,
Just one edge where the pressed glass

Differs from the cut. Think of all
The trips to fabulous places, prizes handed
Out by women, indescribably beautiful—what
Words still work—and all the while the rain

Drops clink against the machine: it sighs, over
Worked, wickedly imagining the cross: four
Legs mark the spot. But that’s not the worst,
I have the passion of a cat—each morning,

Each day the stray bolts my garage: nothing
This way cometh. Even the cilantro is going
To seed. There will be more of it. Much more.
The end hasn’t even begun: I still think

The meat could be more rare.