Heaven Can Wait

Rollicking lilting:
an unseen young woman's
 chortle haunts my ears.
Angelic chuckling softens my heart.
Occasionally, in a swooning despair,
 I lean out the window
 to blindly seek her face, the fount,
 only to be splashed 
 with a fresh outpouring of cherubic mirth.
Assured, languid, bright, content —
 all I've wanted to experience in a woman.
Intermittent eternal trumpet of joy —
tittering with gusto —
driving me up to heaven.


I left my apartment windows open
 — I am wild that way —
and the rainstorm ruined the place
 to teach me a lesson.
I caulked the cracks in the plaster
 and found patches from before.
I repainted the walls
 and noticed the hasty paint job;
 the corner’s curves giggled
  as I lay down the painter’s tape;
 my soul felt the healing
  of wet, tender bristles
  on the wood’s latex skin
  over cracks, bulges, bumps, and bends.
This place was alive
 with getting put together
 and falling apart again.
I beheld its incurable quaintness
 and brutal, undeniable charm.
Forlorn, I came to understand
 I would only add my own mistakes.
I lay in bed;
 the walls were mine.
The apartment
 an awning of wilderness.