Mopping the floor, pushing the slug-trail
of water across linoleum, I like anything
I can put my entire body into. Feels vital
to cause muscles to protest like an escape
from a sinking trailer, silver-can home,
my uncle’s place last September, swallowed
by the Mississippi River bowling over its banks.
Perfection has something to do with a country house,
dogs and kids on the lawn. So he didn’t have it,
just photographs of himself when he was young.
I imagine us a house overtaken by water, silt sliming
the floorboards, river gazing out windows
at more river, the fish in the cabinets our finned mice.
A short swim to work and eternally soaked dishes,
a pot of salt soup. Your keys scraping
the door-lock and the clean of artificial lemon,
a reminder of the good, the given.