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Chicken Frontage

The dog curled at the foot of the sofa,
a newspaper folded on a glass table
where my feet are crossed and propped up.
And now the sound of running water
from the kitchen, the clutter of pots,
the rattle of the refrigerator door
as it opens and shuts, lighting
and shading your body bent,
a dish rag over the shoulder.
And then you stand up,
water boiling behind you, and tilt
yourself in the frame of the doorway,
a pause you’ve created
in your culinary routine,
a model pose of domesticity,
and you ask me what I want
to go with the chicken frontage,
and I  want to scream
back at you;      a moment of chaos,
                abrupt disaster and disillusionment,
     the collapse of routine      and    comfort
I  want   the   great palm   of    life
       to   smack   me     across the     face,
  push me    down       the  hill    of
                  certainty,   so   that   I may
  lose myself in the rubble and muck   below
forcing me    to   stand   up  
     and   scrape    myself     clean  and    
find        myself   again…

19 Mar 07

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l15 - modal. I think you mean model (probably just a typo)

The last stanza is real, it feels honest.
 — unknown

You really don't need the final line, "but instead I suggest Caesar salad."  Lost the line & the preceding ellipse, it verges on "cute."
 — unknown