I wonder sometimes if I am writing the same poem over and over.
If I’ve lived in the rooms of the lines so long, I’ve left crease marks on the furniture.

—Maya Stein

•••

Perhaps this is why I don’t invite many
people in for a visit. Not just because of

the too-much-stuff issue, or because
someone might step into a bit of hairball

one of the four-leggeds left on the floor,
and I missed, but because a sharp-eyed

guest might notice the pile of “lovely”s
in the corner—one of my overused words—

not to mention my tendency toward
three-line stanzas, linguistic tripods

holding up the coffee table. And oh,
dear, though I sweep regularly,

I’ll never clear out all the love poems
to a dead husband, or the ones to

the gloriously resurrected partner,
or, for that matter, the gratitude

oozing from every houseplant
that has seeped into me and onto

the page for so long, you could
say that we are more than a bit

overwatered. But I like it this way,
up to my knees in metaphor,

redolent with repetition, not to
mention giddy with alliteration.

I wouldn’t trade it for a squeaky
clean, spotless life, free of cliché

for all the tea in my happily
overfull cupboard.