Ah, Love, you smell of petroleum
and overwork
with grease on your fingernails
paint in your hair
there is a pained look in your eye
from no appreciation
you speak to me of the lilacs
and apple-blossoms we ought to have
the banquets we should be serving,
afterwards rubbing each other for hours
with tenderness and genuine
olive oil
someday. Meantime here is your cracked plate
with spaghetti. Wash your hands &
touch me, praise
my cooking. I shall praise your calluses.
we shall dance in the kitchen
of our imagination.

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