To Do

To Do

Every note you wrote yourself
returns to the cardboard backing,

uninking itself. The paper below
goes plump and smooth as a pillow,

forgetting what you’d written
to remember, to do. The checks

you send come back, dollars
swimming into your account

like gasoline sucked back into
the pump. Goodbye, tax returns,

goodbye, each job, most recent
to oldest, your summer job

at the bakery, Saturday nights
you watched two children

down the block, the pizza you
all ate frisbeeing into the box,

into the pizza shop and oven,
shredded cheese shriveling

into distinct petals, floating up
into a hand, a bag of cheese,

a fridge. The children shrinking,
bed to crib to arms to belly,

and then you, smaller each day,
returning to warmth, and light,

and darkness, giving your body
back, limb by limb, simplifying,

a lump of warm ice, cells fusing,
melding, slow boil back into level

liquid, natural as air’s glinting snow
disappearing as it tumbles down.