Let me tell you, Lil—I’m here to be borne
down on. Give me the unambiguous
burden of your forearm and the immutable
plane of your table, where I cried
just that once, thinking of my last
trip to Home Depot. The engulfment
of ivories, swatched and racked
like a shark’s teeth, row behind row behind
row behind row, and the roof-high aisles
of essentials: scrapers and tape and high-density
rollers. I always want to make improvements
the right way. Yes, Lil, my shoulders often carry
a clench between them. No, I’m not too warm—
another thing I should work on. The volume
could be a little lower on all the flute music
and this cover of Sweet Child O’ Mine,
Rolling Stone’s 88th Greatest Song of All Time,
rendered on piano: the easy brush of broken
chords without Axl Rose howling to be told
where should he go now, where should
he go. I don’t fault him for demanding
direction. For wanting someone
to gently wake him when he hums
the 87th Greatest Song in shifting sleep,
to remind him to stretch his trapezius, tight
as the strings on Slash’s guitar. To promise
any shade will be fine for the walls
of his half-bath: Swiss Coffee or Spun
Cotton or any of the others, applied
with rollers of any density, taping the trim
or not. It’s only paint, Axl, only rollers.
Right, Lil? Only a bathroom, and only half.