as is our wont, she cooks, I clean.
a division of labor, that reflects
skills levels celebrating
les différences vivent!
sink-bent, over the grill pans,
with water thundering,
soap liquid armies/battles concocting
(secret, shh!)
nonetheless overhears her
chilling in bed,
veg TV watching
thunderous interrupted by
what he knows
will be minimum six or
seven sneezes
which is her wont.
one/two won't ever do,
she a veritable sneezing machine gun,
ever alert, the scrubbing man
becomes a danseur fluid,
performing a triple tours en l'aire
from kitchen to bed in three bounds
with swift and mighty leaps to new heights,
he makes his way to her side,
having plucked tissues,
from a nearby, overhanging branch
upon his way.
seven sneezes immobilize,
kinda like being tasered,
snowball-in-the-face stunners,
requires her man to be a her-o-dancer
to be a savior, gift bearing
of relief-aid to her side.
he returns to the kitchen work,
you cannot half wash dishes,
it's an all or none thing,
it's a man self back slap/clap of the hands
when satisfaction of job completed visible.
satisfaction of just rewards
should always be given
to heroes,
danseurs,
dishwashers,
one and all
so when he slips in beside her,
greeted with seven kisses
for seven sneezes
and this children
is no love poem,
but one of daily stories of
lives well lived in love,
where the mundane,
where the ordinary,
traded up into precious extraordinary
are ever on poems of life,
and ok,
yup,
love
too.
now slap/clap for jobs well done....
