Although I ask for chicken
choked with noodles as flaccid
as eels, a pot of split pea simmers
on the stove. And though I prefer
sneakers worn with puddle splashes
and autumn beach sand, polished
dress shoes loiter near the hope chest —
each stuffed with new hosiery: argyle
and cashmere. And when I reach
from the room’s dark corner,
trace my finger across the flesh
of your left thigh, you ask me
to grace your right. And I do.

© 2009 by S. Thomas Summers
Used with the author’s permission.