Bologna Dreams

I want, more than anything,

to walk into the kitchen

And see you there,

whistling And smiling,

In your boxers

And white undershirt.

Tousled hair, and ugly feet

On cold tile.

I watch you spread mustard

Onto soft, white, fluffy bread

Bologna off to the side, waiting.

And then you turn, and seeing me,

You Give me a wink,

Smile wider,

Turn back to your sandwich,

And keep on whistling.

I want to look out the patio door,

and see you pushing the lawn mower

with a bounce in your step,

as you bob your head to the music from your earbuds.

I want to walk around the house

and see you on a ladder,

cleaning out the gutters,

chicken legs at eye level,

but lineman's chest in my gaze,

you look down at me hungrily,

and tell me what sounds good for dinner.

I want to walk into the garage

and see you tinkering in a tool box

looking for a wrench or a bolt

or something else foreign to me,

humming classic rock,

and you hear me, in a turn and two steps

your lips brush my cheek, nip my ear,

you give my bootie a squeeze,

and go back to your tools

grinning the thoroughly satisfied grin of a man

who knows he is loved.