The best part of my day
is immediately after I make the bed.
For one moment, I’ve made one thing in my life
tidy and smooth and nearly perfect;
perfect enough to satisfy, in any case.
For one moment, such a miracle is within my power.
It won’t last. It never does.
A dog’s nap or a load of laundry or
my own surrender to exhaustion will rumple it,
I know this before I even set to making it.
All cups are already broken.
All beds mussed, and must be lain in nonetheless.
But I get up and smooth it again,
and it is better, thought not quite the same,
not as good as it was the first time.
Still I try. I approximate.
I can pretend I can impose order.
I can impose my will;
a small, temporary victory that must be appreciated
because it is the only kind there is.
The bed will be there until
I decide to haul it away.
It will not sicken.
It will not die.
It will not leave.
It has yet to disappoint,
and I don’t expect it will,
so long as I can fall into it,
eyes closed, waiting for oblivion.
I catch myself stopping as I walk in and out of the room,
about my day, to admire
its clean lines
its steadfast sensibility
chalking up the loose threads that mar the view
to mere time and not approaching chaos,
though they are, in fact, both.
I’d give up infinite space for this
nutshell of a room
blue and quiet
where nothing is touched
nothing is disturbed
where all waits in infinite patience
if I would only close the door
if I could only keep it so.