Often Things Don't Turn Out Like We Imagine

I come to heel. You are
standing in the kitchen
buttering the crust, I can see
you have a fault that could
bring us crashing. Your
refusal to change your ideas
or plans. The knife digs in.
You hate it when I leave
the print of my thumb
in the butter. Black crumbs
of toast burnt like I like it.
You are careful
to wipe these away with
the edge of the blade. I am
close behind you, feel you
hot under your shirt. I am
contrite, just the way you
like it. Now you can be
generous. I watch
you smooth the butter on -
neat to each edge. My mouth
begins to water. I should
take off. I made the space
to do it, talking like I did
in that hotel room. Now am
wagging like a dog, want
to insinuate myself back
under your hand. You're
ignoring me, cut the crust
exactly into two
place the knife
across the butter dish
a perfect right angle. Turn
in the space I leave you
holding the plate. I'm shot
through with want.
Look you in the eye.
I'm trying not to smile.
I'll win if you offer it.
Here. You say. And I
am head over heels.