Domestic Goddess

7 o’clock as promised, loosening tie
Honey-I’m-home meets Clorox smile
as you finally put down Maris Piper and peeler
to hold my hand for a while.
Spritzed your wrists with gravy,
smell Sunday’s roast in your hair
whilst you sit on my knee and read the report
with your eyes still on the kitchenware.
I marvel at the peas you’ve slaved over tonight
and rhapsodise over the poached pear
as burlesque-wife bites the end of rubber glove,
and you peels the net from your hair.
One foot lands on the six-seater table you wanted,
fluffy slipper, compression sock – knee nude.
You’re parasol eyebrows over living-room eyes
and a fridge full of leftover food.
Dear, you spoil me, as you well know,
as dear to me as Tuesday’s risotto,
but I sincerely hope you’re well-informed –
perfection won’t last once the coffee’s lukewarm.
.
.
.
For the fruitful

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