An Audit by the Patio

A stool, a stand, a butterfly-etched bell, a belt:
A lightbulb changed, his connection
Developed-discovered. The patio
Blushes, her sleep scrutinized, her good green
Gone grey, a well-behaved evening cashmere.
The propriety of it? She, for one, hides her eyes.
She counts to twenty. He won’t be able to find them.

Picture it pleasant: breeze like the first
Tang of strawberry, snapped weed like green beans.
Semigloss latex of waxy
Flower; bluegrass to snip
And play two blades. Cattle grates over
Dusty roads, access covers in sidewalks, a tic-tac-tac of heels,

Cups, kettles, tinny radios and cookware
In the corner’s lazy Susan.
The half-percent milk: the calculus of Ingrid.
Nails getting long scratch many splatters;
Clipped, quit tickling at the keyboard. Peasant, an orange gone
Squishy with age, a brunch they’re going on. Department stores,
Many things, too many: clutter keeps her occupied.

Feature greeting cards, circumlocutions
For pangs lacking language; when writing absolute
Addresses, it pays to be painfully precise,
Only he can’t spell her name and she can’t his.
The bluster of trumpets only fixes
A broken bracelet with a safety pin.   

—Michelle J. Boese

Michelle J. Boese recently graduated from Washington University. She lives in St. Louis.

Originally published in the October/November 2003 issue of Boston Review