sometimes, even in my own home,
a need arises to whisper,
and although Emerson would approve,
somewhat transcendental like,
my wife is always accusing me
of talking to myself
i patiently explain how it is
with the early american furniture,
the philosophy & painting books,
the wooden blinds, the picture of fruit
how the pears seem to move, how the caged canary
gives me that look of guilt, how the arm chair
glider has lost its ability to glide
how i wish to inquire about the eloquence
of our bedroom doorknob: all of these things
i wish to articulate in a clear voice
to make her understand something of each
instead, i sit quietly on the couch, my soft almost
dutchlike voice a mixture of color, light, and texture
i swear i could make a living thing
out of my china white teacup
if only she would sit still long
enough & look with me upon its life
