He brings the tea, clattering in its saucer
The van Gogh mug with the disappearing ear
And gone again I hear him whistling in the other room
Along with piano and the clunk of the dryer door
Running water,
The lid of the toilet tank, maybe.

The sounds of his shotgun house with the leaking roof –
A zipper clinking as the laundry dries.
His sighs, absent-minded humming, feet moving in
black Adidas shoes; the floor squeaks under his weight.
A low constant rumble, probably the washer, maybe a train
at the end of the street. But no, it’s gone on too long,
it must be the washer.

Unidentified motions, his body, cleaning or fixing, a
Loud nasal exhale, comment on the state of his sinuses.
Where is that body, which room, sitting or standing,
And what is it concerned with right now?
Me, perhaps, wrapped in the green afghan and quietly
clicking on my keyboard. He thinks I am reading about
Hawthorne, but I am listening to him.