Bologna Dreams
Fantasies, to Each His Own
I want, more than anything,
to walk into the kitchen
And see you there,
whistling And smiling,
In your boxers
And white undershirt.
Tousled hair, and ugly feet
On cold tile.
I watch you spread mustard
Onto soft, white, fluffy bread
Bologna off to the side, waiting.
And then you turn, and seeing me,
You Give me a wink,
Smile wider,
Turn back to your sandwich,
And keep on whistling.
I want to look out the patio door,
and see you pushing the lawn mower
with a bounce in your step,
as you bob your head to the music from your earbuds.
I want to walk around the house
and see you on a ladder,
cleaning out the gutters,
chicken legs at eye level,
but lineman's chest in my gaze,
you look down at me hungrily,
and tell me what sounds good for dinner.
I want to walk into the garage
and see you tinkering in a tool box
looking for a wrench or a bolt
or something else foreign to me,
humming classic rock,
and you hear me, in a turn and two steps
your lips brush my cheek, nip my ear,
you give my bootie a squeeze,
and go back to your tools
grinning the thoroughly satisfied grin of a man
who knows he is loved.
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