Winter 1989 • Vol. XI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1989 |

Man in the Kitchen

He sits at the table. Sulks. Stares at the wall, Waiting for the phone there to jingle More than ring. His daughter settles finally On the sofa for a nap. He has made the bed, Mowed the lawn—shopped, shined— You name it. The woman he loves has her own Hard life. She could write a book Or has already. Would it surprise you She is stronger than a man who makes Beds? He had ten minutes to scribble a note, Drop it off. Call, the note said. Get rid of him and call. He wanted to make His presence felt, a manly thing perhaps But a sign: he was sure of himself. Last night The moon rose full with a yellow haze Like a ring around it, another sign: Rain that fails to arrive. The Saturday sun Shines on his half-open shirt. He toys With a button, then slides the hand under To caress a mat of hair on his chest, Graying. Once all that mattered was her Nuzzling there, hearing the heart Thunder in the throes of a passion Too powerful to allow. A man could Wallow in it. But this o

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