After Reading Tony Hoagland’s Poem with Sunlight on his List

There are, of course,
the things today that are going
according to the list.

I spoke already to Sears
about the vacuum filter,
sent off a class proposal,

filled out PO box paperwork,
and laid my little girl to nap
at one o’clock as usual.

And then there’s also
the noticing how squares
of sunlight slowly progress

around the kitchen floor.
There’s inventing a waltz
around the living room sofa

when Blessed comes on the radio.
Humming aloud when I think
of the way you laughed this morning.

Falling like a flower to the bed.
And the impractical pleasure
of eggnog with lunch.

Imagine the list:

Find catsitter.
Hymn lover’s name.
Fold clothes.
Feed on light.
Call Sears.
Rest feet on a wide bridge of yeses.

Pleasure is not a task. Nor planned.
Not something to fit in
between emails and dishes.

Don’t let me plan the pleasures, then.
Sunlight. Petals. A ripened tomato in November.
But let me get lost. And let the list be long.

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