I’m Begging You to Knock It Down

I’m sorry—I did toss the kitchen scale out front, so we’re no longer able
to measure the heft of cotton candy grapes other than by mouth feel.
 
But while I’m here—I should mention I’m slightly allergic and much
preferred the lemon drop watermelon you ordered not last week, but the one before.

Promise, I’m not nagging—but, I saw you went back to IKEA without me
and bought that hexagonal cross-body bag. So cool.

Totally unrelated. Are you saving up—for our trip to Michigan? You promised
to lay flagstone where I drag my feet each morning.

I left you—a line. Structure to follow.
I set many little traps to guarantee your success.

Do you remember—that bag of freshly ground coffee on the counter?
Ready to funnel into its maker.

Did you see—that empty shredded cheese pouch? Placed on the edge of the middle fridge shelf.
Behind the door. To the right. Nothing left. So, you might help me

I’m Begging You to Knock It Down

make it easier.
Without asking.
Weightless, unnumbered, and light
with potential.

After all, we have nothing to measure our heavy with.