The chipped paint of our porch railing
looks like some long-lost homework
I never bothered turning in-
half-finished and half-assed.
Even in drought our grass grows
too fast, and I should listen better
to the dentist, and to you too.
I know I need to glue the backsplash
behind the bathtub, and I will, soon.
The diaper genie I wish I had
changed before putting the baby to bed
will smell even more noxious tomorrow;
so will the barn I meant to muck,
down by our plot of basil begging
to become pesto before
its leaves brown and curl further,
as long nights settle in on books
that won’t read themselves, the log pile
that won’t split itself– heartwood patiently waiting
like apologies I should still make.