the orchid on the table is dying;
shriveled leaves curling back into itself.
someone could have changed the water,
but there were other things to attend to:
the dishes in the sink, for instance.
the hairball in the middle of the bedroom.
visiting friends in the country,
and wondering at the lack of clutter in their homes.
"they have more space," i said.
and i meant it then, but now wonder.
we could have that space, if we wanted it.
but there is a pushing against,
and the space between
can not be filled.
things are crowded out,
little things--
the pile of clothes at the foot of our bed,
the flower, curled and dry on the table.
longing to be filled,
we push towards each other,
only to be repelled
by the space between.
the orchid on the table is dying.
who will take care of it this time?
Charles Imbelli
2010
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