Does not cook.
Tells me I should use a lid on a pot
I know will boil over if I do.
Is already in trouble for
putting clean dishes away
where I can’t find them.
Says one more “you should” and
my shoes, my shirt, my stirring hand
catch fire.
My teeth can’t shut down hard enough
to hold my growl.
“Fine.”
He leaves the kitchen
but turns back at the doorway
and
roses jump out of his eyebrows,
chocolates pop out of his shoes,
a song bursts from both of his biceps.
Well. Okay. That’s more like it.
But please leave the kitchen.
Now please. Just leave.
