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