John Comitale

What’s Missing Is
 
 
 
Evenings after dinner, after dishes,
yes - I do the dishes -
 
the chirring cicadas were really just
a flitting window shade.
Maybe in another life
 
or in another part of the house;
I let you decide.
 
Already, our eyes on the coffee machine
primed for waking          as if we slept
 
as in kissing your navel, then a little lower,
and then much lower still -
 
What’s left of afternoon tarries
about the kitchen:
eyelets of sun, headlights
flaring up against the cabinets
 
What’s rhythm is      a new kind of knowing,
this way you look at me -
 
it can be enough.

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal