The Kitchen Table
You put the brown bags down
But your shoulders are still tense from
Holding all those oranges and cans.
You shake your hands and call for me.
I’m in my pyjamas still,
Barefoot and haunting your living room,
When I hear the noise of rustling paper
And the tumbling of potatoes onto
The wooden counter. When
I emerge you weave past me on my way to the fridge, as
You look for the scissors.
I know where they are, but I
You hate it when I tell you about
Your own house.
My eyes squint into
The bright yellow light
That’s pushing past the door.
You forgot to close it, and
Before you can stop him
Your dog is in the street,
Barking down the neighbourhood.
I pour you orange juice and pull the
Small of your back close to me.
Your hair is knotted and I
Have to stop myself from running
My fingers into the tangles.
I crave unravelling the disorder of you.
You skim your thumb over the skins of the tomatoes
As you put them in the fridge drawer.
The coffee pot has been
Sitting out for an hour, but you still pour
Yourself a mug. I ask if
We should get the dog.
You swallow and shake your head.
“He’ll come home when he’s hungry”.