Picture Perfect

In those days, after putting the baby
down for a nap, I’d tidy up.
And when there was no toy out of place,
no dish unwashed, no speck of dust
on the white kitchen counter or floor,
no smudge on the piano, no fingerprints
on the windows, glass topped-tables,
or patio doors, I’d stare at the phone,
Sometimes I’d open the drawer under it,
take out the Yellow Pages,
and look up “psychiatrist.”
Once or twice I started to dial.
But the thought of exposing
so much disarray would send me
outdoors, past tubs filled with jasmine
to the lounge chair by the pool overlooking
the dock with the gleaming white boat
tied up to it. And whoever happened
to sail by, notice the scent of jasmine,
and glance up, would see me sitting there,
tanned and pretty in my straw hat
and bikini, sipping iced tea with ice cubes
made of lemonade and sprigs of mint,
looking perfectly happy.