Shortly I’ll leave this house for my labors
— scrub potatoes, sharpen knives, listen
to the wet plop of tomatoes in the sixthpan,
dismembered for a saute. Shortly I’ll leave
This house and climb into a Dodge,
one hubcap lost to the swollen river
in last year’s rains when the logs
heaved against the bridge. Shortly
I’ll leave this house and all its things,
the hairline cracks, the faucet plip,
the caramel sheen of coffee drying
in the mug. And shortly I’ll return
To this, the shift over, the money made,
the oxidized wine punked in the tumbler.
I’ll hassle through dinner to be sure.
I’ll stare at the ceiling fan again
And wonder, as I always do over
whether my hubcap ever made its way
to the Gulf of Mexico or whether it lodged
itself under some bridge in northwest Iowa.