Easy to Love
And this time, firmly knocking, it is Harold the plumber,
call me Hank. I tilt toward him, avoid his boots.
He is the galaxy of tools and skills and I, alone three months,
warm to him, my starchy self wilting.
He deserves my love because he knows,
is true to, all under-sink challenges.
When he stands, I see a stubble of gray hair, his chin, Hank,
I want to say, and do, would you like some coffee?
I scan the house for other leaks to hold him. I hold so easily.
We share, now, space, time, a kitchen, the grey morning,
the leaking sink I'm doubly grateful for,
it holds Hank, a name lilting as he works.
The world feels warmer, and my slim space, a chill
always leaching under the doorways, is now filled, is good.
I stretch my toes with pleasure in my red slippers—
I feel inviting to anyone who might knock today.
After teaching around the country for a couple of years, Steevie (as she is known) moved deep into the Western Catskills to read, writing and do light farming. Some of her poems have appeared in Denver Quarterly, Southern Poetry Review, Stone Canoe, Westchester Review, and others; and a chapbook Sluice (2013). She escaped briefly, she says, for an MFA (2017).
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