in the corner of a crook
there is an orange headed beauty
that kicks about in her scullery
all the makings of a fine dinner

seated near there is a man
who was made a boy by a
departure and so hung on his
feelings like a coat to a rack

she bustled down home nostalgia
from the boiling pot and
chop chop chop of veggies
making quick dissipating patterns

white hands scoop away white hands
pick up red wine white hands break
white bread and dip it in yellow olive
oil with a pool of vinegar at the bottom

the boy felt like that pond of dark brown
resting inky in the bottom of a bowl
wishing he could float to the surface
to dance with the flavorful white salt

he was bitter and the strange music was
it latin it might have been central american
given by a mutual friend and blaring
from the living room but it stirred him

sauce was released from its can and danced
to the beat of her spoon keeping a circular
rhythm with that music and the boy watched
and smiled to himself and dipped more bread

she sang along not to the song but to the
great boatfuls of emotion mooring in
the boys heart throwing ropes to the
thoughts on board and pulling them to harbor

those phantom sailors cheered in soft
sighs through the boys lips that curled
now and then into a grin and then down
when a dark thought floated by

red wine was poured and another glass
and another glass the spaghetti was done pliant
warm inviting complicated and the boy preferred
to think of himself as noodles instead of vinegar

her eyes engineered a bridge of compassion
that the boy appreciated but could not cross
and so he dissected his noodles with his fork
some time ago the music stopped

he was full too full she was asking for a cigarette
they spoke of love as the embers flashed with brilliance
at the end of their smokes before falling to the ground
and all the boy could think of was endings

so he said he had to go though he would
have rather stayed but he felt the night was ending
and sleep was calling he was so tired since
she left so very tired and about their apartment

now his apartment she left traces of herself
forgotten this and thats he was going
back to it but more importantly to sleep
which since she left had become her

he placed the dishes in the sink and hugged
the host that chopped the veggies poured the wine
boiled the pasta pulled him into harbor
built a bridge and bummed a cigarette

the boy said thank you and road home
the wind rushing through him staying
their for just a second and then taking
the memory of the moment with it