Then you can wrap your arm around my waist, dearest, and if you prop up the other one by the stove, it can stir the soup while we dance. One hand, if you wouldn’t mind, could balance the checkbook, while the other clasps the nape of my neck for a dip. Let your right knee scrape the floor ever so slightly, beside the refrigerator where earlier today someone spilled a splash of milk. The other could do some time beside the bed, digging out dust bunnies and missing socks. And if you’d be so kind, sweetheart, could you seat your buns in the recliner, to warm the cushion? I’ll need a rest after all this dancing. Your elbow makes a perfect neck pillow—may I? What a lovely ottoman your rib cage makes tonight. Thank you, darling, did I ever tell you you’re the perfect man? Every bit of you.
This poem appeared in the now-retired webzine Pure Francis in June 2011. Much thanks to Francis, dapper connoisseur of crème soda and caviar. It was a great run.
