at the stove
they know they ought to
have a hot, fresh meal prepared
when Sir Lord Alpha wanders home.
My tongue stings citrus,
working word fruit from the rind.
jog with strollers
around the block
sun on their shoulders
and greet neighbors like eternity
has passed since they last spoke.
I jumble half-folded clothes into drawers,
subtracting sounds that fall too easy.
keep the balls
moving through the air
and spurn the flaws
they've concealed for years;
months of magazines beside the bed show them how it's done.
I stink of ink and am artfully ignorant.
A wink and a nod to Kerry's awesome piece at Skywriting.