The chainsaw saunters in at seven
in the morning. The street has eyes;
it plugs the gutter holes with noise.
I turn to you and laugh because the day,
again, is ours to ridicule. We’re fools
when faced with many tasks: the timeliness
of haircuts, clothes that suit the function,
the godforsaken broken sink. We press
this weekday’s love of minutes to the wall
we’ve punctured with our stalwart predilection
for the east. In your hair I’ve found two dozen
reasons to remain and the kitchen, in its grace,
has yet to ask us when. The pan is hot.
We disobey the workmen’s noise.