A Record of Us

There’s always a right thing

to do, I speculate, folding

the underwear of a nine-year-old

midmorning. I know better

than to throw away apple seeds

when I find them

set aside in a dish, even though

the number of trees we’ve planted

is none. The cleaning woman

left for Florida, crying and

thanking me. All I ever did

was pay her and buy more

blanqueador. I wanted

to ask: Was this your

favorite house?