Poem for My Husband 12

He mumbles. In his sleep, in waking, pacing

to the kitchen and back, he looks for

eyeglasses, the newspaper, a blue-handled

hammer his father gave him, a shoe.

He calculates always, the curse of genius.

He does the math, and while it adds up,

it never works out for humanity

in the end.

Still, he gets in his truck and leaves, to mow this one's

lawn, trim that one's trees. Cries with a man

whose wife is gone, listens to a long-tale teller

ramble on. And at home, and at night, he mumbles

these love songs to me.