I’ve known the heat of a splattering chicken stock,
and I’ve known the chill of a summer gazpacho.
I’ve heard the tinkle of a Mel Brooks piano solo,
and I’ve heard the throaty laugh of a brother Baldwin.
I’ve felt the gentle press of a dozen orange roses,
and I’ve felt the worn suspenders of a local tomato farmer.
I’ve summered in the Hamptons in November,
and I’ve sprung in Paris this past July.
And though I’ve been covered in all-purpose flour,
drenched in good vanilla,
wrinkled by a Jeffrey embrace,
and angered by Frank’s insistence on a beach day,
There’s always reason to brush off
the baguette crumbs and start again.
I’m a damn button-down,
but things are looking up.