My Grandmother’s House
The scent of cinnamon
hangs softly
in the air
at my grandmother’s house.
The leftovers of
uncountable years of baking
waft gently
in the background
sneaking through the
coal warmed rooms.
Sleep comes easily there.
There exists a decided absence
of modern noise,
save for the
tender hum
of the ancient Frigidaire,
but it is that ever present scent that
hugs the senses—
ferociously sweet,
intensely loving—
with grandmotherly familiarity.
Gorgeous
Like those guys on television
who appear in gum ads
or beer ads
or ads that feature jeans.
The kind of guy you have to
stop and look at
on your way to the fridge
for another pint of ice cream.
Those guys who have such fun
playing billiards,
hiking in the woods,
or just sitting half naked near a rotary fan.
I’d love to be gorgeous like that.
Like a wilderness man
with manicured nails
and an L.L. Bean catalogue.
Like the mountain biker
with well-defined calves
and a giant S.U.V.
Like the guy who parties all night,
drinking flavored beer,
unconcerned with work the next day.
I‘d love to be gorgeous like that.
Youthful and butch,
with stubble and mussed hair,
sweating beads of salty sweat
that’s far more clean
than dirty
maybe a little dirty
a little dangerous
but the good kind of danger
the kind that makes
your jeans tingle
and your lips quiver.
I want to be gorgeous like that.
