Today I finally washed my fancy black top—
lacy with sequins—that’s been on my night table
for a shameful length of time. I used to
dress up for my husband’s concerts, leave
the house with him after a quick supper
and end up in a concert hall painted 
in broad, masterful strokes by Brahms,
Debussy, Elgar. If I admit he’s been retired
for two years, my procrastination shows
like a slip a bit longer than its skirt. And now 
the sequins, studding a clean top, will hang 
beside his tails even longer.

But there are jewels beyond the glitter
of the musican’s life, like the Towhee
egg I spotted today, cream with brown flecks
and as perfectly smooth as any number 
of Schubert’s tunes.