Today, I got this poem in my inbox, and it sums up my week exactly. I'm constantly amazed at the power of poetry to capture things perfectly every time.
After Reading There Might Be an Infinite Number of Dimensions
arrive on time with the bottle of Zinfandel, a six-pack
of Scuttlebutt beer, how we cover our wrinkles
with Visible Lift, shove the mashed winter squash
into the baby's mouth, how we hold it all together
despite clogged rain gutters, cracked
transmissions, a new explanation for gravity's
half-hearted hold. I'm wondering how we do it,
comb the tangles from our hair, trim the unwieldy
camellia, speak to packed crowds about weight loss
or fractals. I'm wondering how we don't
fall to our knees, knowing a hardened pea,
lodged in the throat, can kill, knowing
liquids are banned on all commercial flights.
Leaves fall. The baby sucks her middle fingers.
Meanwhile, the refrigerator acquires
an unexplainable leak. Meanwhile, we call
the plumber, open wide for the dental hygienist,
check each month, with tentative circlings,
our aging breasts. Somehow, each morning,
the coffee gets made. Somehow, each evening,
the crossing guard lifts fluorescent orange flag,
and a child and her father cross the glistening street.