Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. / And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up /

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. / It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through /

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. / For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, /

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those / wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, /

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. /

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want / whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it./

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, / say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep /

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless: /
I am living. I remember you."
— What The Living Do, Marie Howe