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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 …