she is made solid against a red door
her waist nips just so, she is thinking

is thinking of a wine with hints of pineapple 
and peach, its pairing with havarti 
and crab      she has a kitchen in the corner shadows

outfitted with cunning measuring spoons that spark 
the dark in stainless      she plans a first course 

crusted in five-spice powder while sitting
on her bed, a statue of alabaster turned to watch 
the day outside the window burnish with age

empty hours of light drain into night—
her toes grow cold while smoothing 
the sheets she leaves     bare

to waltz the streets
in her Wellingtons

© 2005 by PJ Nights. All rights reserved.