I bustle about the kitchen,
heating a can of Spaghettios,
putting out a bowl of grapes,
ordinary things...
yet remembering how
you kissed me last night
over an open drawer,
pretending to need my help
to find a corkscrew,
ran your hand up my thigh,
took a picture of me
with my robe gaping open,
and made me blush today,
not from the heat of the stove,
but the memory of
our sex trapped inside
a galley kitchen
on a rainy
January night...
You were always
wonderful
in the kitchen.
