Last year’s leaves still gather in the corners 
of our yard, and I never closed the chink 
around the fireplace that lets in the night. 
Another windowpane in the garage 
stays cracked another year. October is coming. 
The bulb above the sink quivers its light 
into the soapy basin water I 
trouble into a brew. While I wait for you 
I sweep the linoleum, kill flies, unseam 
envelopes, roast chickens whole, twist ice trays, 
read in the corner chair under the gold 
floor lamp. I boil water for tea. Come home. 
We’ll keep the windows open late, shiver 
under the covers, dreaming of frost.

©
Aaron Brame is the former senior poetry editor of The Pinch. His work appears in or is forthcoming from Indianapolis Review, Heron Tree, Lumina, and Tupelo Quarterly. He lives and works in Memphis, Tennessee.