Far From Kitchen Sinks

 Far From Kitchen Sinks

 

Far flung from drama over how plastic bowls

are best placed inside those kitchen sink holes:

she’s all about going without; I favour within

 

hearing wolves howl, while lone magpie sings,

I let thoughts float on winter’s biting breeze

distant from hoary frosts and the big freeze

 

for I know a place where teasing looks grow.

Brewing hubble bubble scents in casseroles,

I’m stewing, she’s all fragrance; her door’s ajar

 

and if I risked a peek, I’d catch illegal glimpse

of her hair through thin stripped bare chink,

but I’m chaired at her table, bound and dutiful

 

and breathless and, oh my God, she’s beautiful,

smoulders hot enough to stir a good man bad,

around her hair she’s wound strawberry hijab

 

as crimson as roses that bloom upon her face

in blushing petals. She’s rushing, makes haste

to place food, asks if I like or not her tastes,

 

almost avoids brushed glance, flirted scan,

comes in, out, in, tests what makes me man,

holds hot spoon to her lips and the sauce drips.

 

Later in her car, she’ll sidelong shift her hips,

lean in to scarcely whisper I love you so much,

and yes, you can look but you can never touch.

 

At some far flung date we’ll marinate together,

savour flavours of her every promised pleasures,

anticipating delights we'll store and treasure.