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Indecisiveness is cruel.
My hands agree.
They go around the furniture shop choosing.
I will take this mattress.
This chair is coming home with me.
Likewise, these curtains.
And this lampshade.
How I love the hues of oceans.
I feel, I give the onceover then the twice.
I bounce on beds. I open drawers.
And I imagine what the unalike
will look like together in repose.
The house is already
sated with my fingerprints.
An architect drew it up
but with my hand upon
his wrist and guiding.
Somebody else's choice of flowers -
probably God's -
were immediately dispensed with.
In their place, my plantings.
Dying trees, I let die.
My new pines were grateful
for the opportunity to thwart the season.
give every month their best needles of green.
Of course, I don't think of women in the same way.
No drawing up the plans
and then auditioning, recruiting.
It was all purely ecstatic coincidence I'm sure
that you fit this unconscious model
that's been molded in my head since adolescence.
Really, even if you were different,
I swear, we'd still be us.
You're not the house. You're not the furniture.
You really are your own person.
Yes, I could have proposed on a better day,
to a woman more in keeping.
But indecisiveness is cruel.
And, besides, your sister wasn't home.