(The last line is not working for me but I'll look at it at some point.)
Making and Doing
I see him through the bay window
as I drive home from a long day’s work.
He’s moving back and forth vacuuming the rug
in a slow dance; I watch him through the gauzy view
of the curtains, back and forth, back and forth
in a sort of box step, as if practicing for
a big dance with large feet cutouts
that I am unable to see.
I imagine him teaching our daughter these steps,
bracing his arm around her, their careful syncopation,
the trust of a partner who won’t let go. Not ever.
Maybe she is dreaming in his arms
after being danced to sleep in the midnight hours.
He coos to her, tells her of life’s mundane tasks
and daily passages, the simple acts of making
and doing the ordinary things around the house.