First Draft: Spring 2009: Little Rock

Domesticity bores me the way broomsticks
bore the backs of closet doors.
Monogamy tires me like a tilt-a-whirl
that doesn't tilt or like bathrobes
worn as a substitute for ambition.
I grow weary of the rules.
They flake away at my resilience like
sand on the sphinx,
like winter on Napoleon's army.
I crave a collaboration.
An end to vacuum cleaners and clothes
I shouldn't wear.
The schedules are now defunct:
Three meals a day
Bills due every first
One kiss after breakfast
Be restrained.

I'm ready for a rebellion.
To not put away my laundry.
To drink coffee after midnight.
I touch things I've owned for years
and wonder if they feel the
difference in my fingers that
you do. How my prints have arched
their lines to encompass
everything. More than mop handles
and grocery carts. More than light
switches and fine stitched embroidery
on pillows. I'm ready to collect dirt
under my fingernails.