Everything is glad of me.
The radio plays only flutes.
My key fits locks all over town,
turns them over and over.
Plants think up fresh leaves
and even the dust on the shelves
has got a new pair of shoes.
Waxy yellow peppers jump in my pots
and cook cheaply into a thick glee.
Churches open their double doors
and my throat starts singing up and up.
Trucks kindly do not grind my house apart,
and busses watch my movements carefully.
Curly green boys
hide in my old cotton sheets,
and the library has stacked all the books
in my favorite order.
The checks I write
clear quietly and completely
in and out of the twilight,
of my blue marble bank.
And death is just a word like doorjamb,
that twirls and worries gently.