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When they step out at night, their astral
clothes spin out of closets & fly
down the hall. In the dark
only a racket of coat hangers.
I tiptoe past the orange
cat scratching a list of complaints
in fresh litter & I'm whistling--
I know I'll find the missing
stereo, the Sinatra album cover,
the forged signatures on my canceled
checks, & I'll forgive them.
When they return, I've polished
the brass lamp, taken the garbage out.
Moses calls this ardor, Jan says it's
poetry & Ray explains it as the dirt table
of ourselves. The others take off
for Canada, but Nick orders
a picnic table from my Sears catalog,
promises to snap back by spring.
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