I see your car
in the driveway of the austere box of a house
with concrete walls and huge windows –
the house I imagined we could live in
if we didn’t mind being on display.
How few things we would have:
a single bent arc of purple orchids
on the sleek black lacquered table.
Belongings elegant and sparse,
a life pruned of all excess branches and blooms:
seashells and souvenirs and platters and photographs
bicycle pumps and house slippers and the now-fading Pierre Deux curtains
nightstands weighted down with journals and books and candles
mismatched wine glasses and the crocheted ivory table cloth
I just bought
which made the white plates look dingy
and spurred an antique and consignment store hunt
for delicate ivory bone china plates –
two and three of a kind
gold rimmed and colorful, playing off the stemware
glinting and ornate and soft and feminine –
packed up,
tidied up,
as if life can be kept minimalist
as if I’m not one to go on and on
accumulating stories and memories and having one more bite –
once even a whole second steak –
because I don’t want to live on display
in a concrete box of a house
with modern shiny furniture
hard edges and straight lines
approaching asymptotically
the smallest possible life
that looks perfect
from the sidewalk.
I don’t want to live there
even if your car is parked in front.
powerful finish!