I know that when you are putting on makeup
I am to be Moses before the burning bush,
eyes averted, downcast, not daring to look.
And a background of high school musical theatre
occasionally turns me into my namesake’s army,
threatening to vibrato our four walls down to dust.
Sometimes — making chili, for instance —
we become the first two garden people.
“Here,” you say, “try this.” I always do.
Then of course, when we moved in together,
our merged bookshelves echoed the Ark:
Two Gatsbys. Two Portnoys. A pair of worn Beloveds.
The world outside our home — and this poem — is on fire.
There’s work to be done. But before we begin,
let’s Solomon this Snickers down the middle.
Josh Lefkowitz was born and raised in metro Detroit, and received an Avery Hopwood Award for Poetry at the University of Michigan. His poems and essays have been published in The New York Times, Washington Square Review, Electric Literature, Rattle, Barrelhouse, and many other places.