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What the Living Do by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
       probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty
       dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday
       we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
       pours through

the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in
       here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the
       street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday,
       hurrying along those
wobby bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down
       my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This
       is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
       that yearning.

what you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the
       winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and
       more and then more of it.

but there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself
       in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a
       cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that
       I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.