Not every man has had the same pleasure as I
of being reminded each morning while shaving
that body souffle’s come in tangerine,

that no matter what shape or size they come in,
all lotions are good, and in the shower
the truly enlightened mind never can,
nor ever should confuse
shampure´ with shampoo,

and that later while getting dressed,
of the eternal verity no house can have
too much closet space,
or while going downstairs for coffee
how flowers by Nature’s intended design
hold the center of every flat space,
end and dining table, kitchen counter,

in fact, any surface otherwise begging
for stacks of sports magazines,
old newspapers, the mail unopened
for, say, fourteen days,

that citrus-fresh, sparkling cleanliness
in the kitchen, the bathroom,
everywhere is God,
and candles may burn in broad daylight,
in the morning, afternoon,
and there’s nothing illogical
or odd about Slim Fast and chocolate
occupying the same cupboard shelf,
that for reasons within rules wrapped
in a mystery the self may never know,
suddenly after two years,
because of some aesthetic slight or insult,
akin, perhaps, to thumbing one’s nose,
a chair in the living room, an area rug
or floor lamp is found wanting,
and, worse, “It has to go,”

but the vase bought yesterday,
or a painted potpourri bowl will be perfect
on the flat space above the television
if, and trust me on this, it’s turned just so.