no babe, you know I hate to see you cooking, frying standing over pots and stirring sauces trying to brush wisps of bangs from your eyes while wearing kitchen mitts
What I would prefer is something leftover, reheated served with a smiling grin from my ear to wayover down under there, next to you
<•> old words are better than than new ones
hey, hi! how you doing, old friend?
“yo, out of the hospital feeling so much better; had some kind of ‘itis’ which they cured with an ‘yisis’!”
glad to hear; impressed by all those new big scientific words; frankly preferred your old ones, that were rediscovered and reoriented in new ways in your poems verses;
me? never better cause to hear from a man whose optimism has yet to meet a match that he can’t best,
heals all our wounds
<|>
if you told me
that I could spend three successive rainy days in almost all silence, perfectly contented by myself, i’d said you crazy,