A pipe could burst somewhere important. It could cause our floors to swell,
or make the ceiling drizzle onto our decadelong accrual of bargain bin albums,
and still, all I’d care about is how we can make our chocolate linguine tonight.
A half night of sleep lost over what to pair with our gorgonzola cream sauce,
over the wasted handful of parsley you snipped from the stalk just yesterday.
I’d cringe at the memory of clinking forks, even if they are swallowed up by the sound of distant fireworks. Or the tenor saxophone being played amidst the smattering of food trucks under the downtown pavilion. Or the umpire’s calling of ball four on the home team pitcher just before the phone rings in the bull pen.
The crown molding would sweat, and the wallpaper would curl, long before I’d ever speak lamentations of the morning sun slants or the headless streetlights. I’d sooner swish and swallow the dew like a sip of our finest bottle of Kentucky Proud Cabernet.
Our lights would flicker like a first kiss, like eyelids, like lips colliding in a dorm room, like hot to the touch and prickly. And I’d think,
maybe we could get a last-minute reservation at the Italian joint, and maybe if we showed the hostess our warped Billy Joel sleeve, she could squeeze us in anyway.
We’d be knee deep in our unintended new pool, and my toes would still find yours, and we’d go fishing for the stock pot and diving for the strainer. And I’d have just enough time to ask about your brother’s new girlfriend when the waves come rushing in, relentless and heavy, and sweep us clear down the stairs.
We would ebb along, bounce like buoys against white caps, and you’d tell me she’s fine, if not a little immature for her age.
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