Morning Inspiration

Here's a new poem I've been tinkering with this winter:

The History of Sorry

Morning Cheerios--

as good a time and place

as any for sorry.

Milk and the clink

of bowl and spoon

make everything

Saturday cartoon-

colored and solid

in a dog-walking, do-the-dishes,

plant-watering way.

No words can careen

out of control

in the gold of a sunbeam

or veer like the car

last night in the rain,

our angry faces reflected

pale in the windshield,

voices rising

as the Wah Sang take-out sign

on Chelmsford Street

flashed past, one long, gluttonous rush--

PEKING DUCK BEEF

CHOW FOON BUBBLE

TEA SLUSH--

like a joke

or falling in love.

Back in the days and weeks

and years when we were new,

when lies were still

small and white

and few,

what shape did sorry take?

Maybe croissants in bed

and scrambled eggs.

I remember our necks

and legs and arms

forgave, and the room

slid sideways

in a mattress, six-pack,

skip-classes sort of way.

Cold cereal is for old 

love, the press of old

lies, sluggish blood.

No sugar now--

careful portions 

in profile

at the counter.

And yet, when the bowls

are empty,

I watch you clear

the counter and wipe

the granite clean,

taking care

with the juice cups

we bought at a junk shop

together--

just two,

almost matching,

just enough.