And so we talked of this and that,
Of oven grease and cooking fat
And who spilt what upon the mat
And left that stain.
A clock tick-tocked behind the scenes;
You sewed and pressed your old blue jeans;
I wanted to stop this but hadn’t the means
Through too much pain.
The route to your heart has been blurred;
I dare not utter an incorrect word;
The delicate balance must not be stirred;
Don’t make a scene.
We circled each other all last night
Like crabs preparing for a fight,
Our fatic language clipped, polite;
The cold between.
(2006)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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