Rearranging. (poem)

Something again has prompted me,

some hazily recalled circadian urge,

to rearrange our furniture.

The task is compelling

involving, as it does, virile sons-in-law

with requisite pick-up trucks, willing muscles,

agility with my old tools, and without

deterring rheumatism or angina.

And daughters, too, who attack

compacted dust enclaves with

determination, deftness and, above all

the ability to see them.

I put the phonograph records back,

alphabetized, on more accessible shelves.

I remember; we found all the Wolf Lieder in Salzburg …