In The Kitchen

His bare feet stretch across the tile like two bits of white elastic
barely standing each day compared to most, they walk away from the kitchen
and then into the kitchen, the fridge opening and closing for course two,
spraying and buttering and chopping and stirring.
They walk through my room, their bravery stemming from ignorance,
like the fertile nubs of my White Snakeroot plant, stems stemming.
I want to burn his tender white nubs with the tip of my cigarette, so slight
compared to what some might do.
Lonesome he waits for baby to return, with his pots, simmering,
many at once, many simmering stews on his burners,
his friends and his life held carefully in a bitches clenched fist.
She pees from anxiety. He mops it up eagerly.