When she took a position in a distant city he knew
He could not follow and in the months afterwards he built
Them a home where she was still with him even
Though they never lived together. Mornings they made coffee
In this kitchen, washed the berries, read books on the long couch,
Their legs touching in some configuration, and one would interrupt
The other's reading to make some observation on the art
They both practiced. Afternoons he went to work but even
Then, talking in a meeting or with colleagues in the hallway,
He pictured her and how she and he were writing in bed
Back to back on their laptops. Nights were more difficult
When she curled beside him, a beautiful question
No longer to be answered. So why not try to sing
The pleasures of his real leaky house, the unruly yard,
His arguing children, the undisciplined dog, his ongoing work,
And she who is brilliant now far outside his door? Everything
He has known was imperfect. What else was there for him but this?
Stuart Dischell is the author of Good Hope Road, Evenings & Avenues, Dig Safe, and the forthcoming Backwards Days published by Penguin.