The kitchen sinks

In Massachusetts I stand at the kitchen sink
with no view. I nudge the faucet right to
get cold water, and I wonder what happened
to the yellow clock that once did me the favor
of standing in for the sun.

In Wisconsin I stand at a kitchen sink
with a view. I had forgotten what it was
like, to consider light this way, to
contemplate the odd twist of a tree,
the weather, what I might have said—
while my fingernails scrape congealed
oatmeal from the new bowls.

Here, I nudge the faucet left to
get cold water, and I wait. Here, 
the cold water is in no rush and
takes its good old time. I wait and
I remember when half of you
was gone from me, but this way:
head and torso communing with
the plumbing, unseen,
your thick bare feet and stained
trousers a better view than the one
just outside the window. If I knew
how I would nudge you to hot
and show you what I would like
to remember.