one day we'll tell stories
about half-clothed kitchen dancing
and spatulas that somehow
snuck into the mix--Slap!
you, wearing my bra
me, your boots
my bubby's velvet chairs
standing ancient on your crooked hardwood floors
I need to make you a set of keys
you say ten thousand times
but the doors are never locked
and when they are,
I lay in the yard
and wait
for you to hear my breathing
dance down the stairs
call me in like a street cat
or a crusty punk
whose only currency is kisses
we can never find the keys, anyway
or the shoes
or the other sock that's hiding behind
the famous white couch
that we could never bare to toss
not even when we moved next door
one box, bag, swaggering pile of crap
at a time
everything is tangled
like necklaces in a drawer
of junk]
my records, your player
your children, my lullabies
my dishes, your sink
your cooking, my hunger
the stories we'll only tell when
the children are grown
and messy
like us
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