Pure art with no ambition.

You dance around your kitchen,

Spilling salad on the tiles,

Not letting yourself get tired,

Praying only to yourself

And the family photos on the shelf.

Watered-down wine,

A clock that can’t hold time,

And me sitting at the table

Sure I’ll never be able

To slide around on bare feet,

Shrug off the extra hour of sleep,

Make the moments count without question,

And wait for joy to set in.

I’m too busy watching you

To search for any other truth

Like the boiling point of water,

Or Billy Collins’ alma mater.

I will refuse to tussle

With whether or not

The heart is just a muscle.