Wednesday, May 24, 2006


I love to watch your fingers shelling peas,
how delicately you snap the ends,
pull and discard the string, then pop the seam
and flick the peas out with a thumb
into the banded ceramic bowl. And not
because your movements are erotic,
although they are, and I await
their coming touch.
But here, now,
what takes me are the small repeated acts
of skill and grace, the unself-conscious
love for us whom you shall feed.


Blogger Unknown said...

Howard, this is wonderful, and satisfying to me. It's not often a poem satisfies me these days, either. The last line makes this entire poem a very neat and tidy little bundle of pleasure. And this from the man who's all tuckered out and ready to quit. You're an inspiration.

7:00 PM  

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