He practiced his handwriting,
trying to make it neater for a job application.
He was alone, and he thought about the baby coming.
His wife was at her mother's place.
He cleared up, made tea,
and continued writing.
It didn't get any better.
He could hardly read what he'd just written,
like he barely remembered
what happened last week.
It was a real effort, like DIY,
though he knew that memories,
like a sense of direction,
came in good time, by the by,
rung by rung, like hardwoods.
He'd laid a floor, he'd done that.
He'd laid a pattern he liked,
like the weirdness of his handwriting
spilling from page to page
its ragged edges getting under everything he did.
He'd written her the month they met.
Months later she sat him down
and went through it, saying,
What does this say?
And what does this say?