I finally get it: you wanted always
to keep doing whatever it was
you were in the middle of
doing; so (by definition) bed-
time, wakeup-time, any time-
to-do-this, do-that interrupted:
scritch-scratch of mother-nag.
Evening might find you puttering
around the garden, kitchen, then,
after Paul hit the sack, thumbing through
a stack of clippings looking for that one
recipe (was it the Times, or Gourmet?)
until you give in and check out
Chez-Panisse Desserts, p. 232—
see, you left it marked.
Morning was the pleasure of not
wanting, of slow openings, of
lingering, trying to ignore the back-
ground noise of a lover prepping
for his day in the city. So, it’s not
so much you were a Class A
procrastinator—but that you longed
for a stay from endings, a liminal,
in-between, olly-olly-oxen-free
zone, no untoward inconvenience
(brain cancer, or death) would jerk
you out of the now into the next: no
accidentally multiplied factor
of quadruple-decker cake batter
paused, midair, before overrunning
a modest, 3 x 5, lightly-floured plan.