Ten jerseys, laundered last fall,
tugged from the bottoms of drawers
for the first softball practice
of spring.
Two pristine (and short)
skirts of athletic young blondes playing
tennis.
A giant albino
spider on the black tee shirt
of a lanky red-haired teen.
Not one of the dogwood trees
or rhododendrons
in the neighborhood – pink
seems to be more in fashion
these days.
Bills. I always think bills should
Be some other color –
perhaps violet.
A tuxedo shirt, size
16 ½, 34, 35,
still hanging (long dry) in the doorway.
The tops of the pillowy clouds
reflecting the sun.
The shiny magnetic board
above my desk,
inviting poetry
through the rearrangement of
someone else’s words.
My toddler’s budding molars
just beginning to peek through
tender pink gums – visible (unfortunately)
only when he screams.
Trader Joe’s mascarpone,
brought to my desk by my husband
(with mini stroopwafels!)
as food for thought.
The glowing mane of
a daisy with fifty-three
petals – better start with
He loves me.
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