want to find him in my kitchen
with his big muscled arms
and his spotless white shirt.
Call me James, he’ll say, as I
pour him a glass of sauvignon blanc.
Then he’ll pull out a permanent marker
and write his name on the glass.
What are you doing? I’ll ask.
When I’m around, there’s a world
of crafty possibilities, he’ll say.
Then he’ll whip out his trusty white magic eraser
and swipe the permanent marker away.
And he’ll give me a spin—
Open for me your oven door.
Oh, James, I’ll say, you don’t mean …
… that I will bring my legendary clean
to your oven glass? Why yes, Rosemerry,
I can lift grease buildup from hard to clean places.
He’ll give me a flex. Kitchen sink next?
He’ll swagger across the room. I’ll swoon.
Oh, James. I never knew you’d be so, so, so …
… adept at sticky residue? he’ll suggest,
and I’ll guide his hand to my
faucet. Say good bye to water spots,
he’ll say with a grin, his teeth glistening
like brand new white backsplash tile, like unused linoleum,
and we’ll dance together across the sparkling floor, sponges in hand,
drawn to whatever is dirty. And the room will smell
of meadows and bleach and rain. And oh darling, he’ll say,
don’t you think it’s time you took me to the bath?