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…