It takes practice, this inattention
to life beyond the desk.
To ignore the thudding footfalls
on the porch, the slither
of mail through the slot.
What did I tell you? Someone
on this block is eating Chinese
food and singing Karaoke. And, look,
it may rain; a squirrel must move
her kits, one by one, from the perilous
drainpipe to some new, undisclosed,
location. Later, my own children
begin building something,
a time machine, using the boxes
I was saving for Christmas,
several miles of Scotch tape,
and the new bread knife. Now,
surely, that is reason enough
to put this work away?
If the time machine works,
I want to go with them.