object lessons

I tell my roommate, the mess makes it look 

more lived-in, which is true: when we both 

secret our selves to our bedrooms the rest of 

the house gapes like a missing tooth, prodding 

helplessly at the absence of personality, of 

proof of life. give me junk mail on the island, 

pages of coupons we’ll never use for subway

sandwiches and orthodontic consults. 

give me a sink stacked with mismatched mugs,

piles of shoes kicked off in the hall. give me 

trash bags we forget at the door, potato peel 

compost, the ceramic bowl housing a solitary 

banana and two avocados too-green. give me 

textbooks on the coffee table, hydrology 

next to the carolingian court, disappearing

ballpoint pens and charging cords galore. give 

me urban sprawl and grocery scrawl and the blue light 

of the television late at night, our yawns remixing 

the theatrical score because we had to finish the 

val kilmer batman our dogged channel surfing

unearthed. give me splatters on the stove, 

fingerprints on glasses. give me detritus, give 

me memory, give me promise we are living too 

well to keep it from spilling over onto 

everything, everything.