Painting the Kitchen Red by Mike Wiegand

It's called bee balm red you say scrutinizing the paint chip and holding it up against the white cabinets redder than a well-digger's ass I offer that's colder not redder you say redder than a communist's sunburn you continue but I have other ideas redder than a one-armed paper-hanger I postulate and still trying you patiently explain redder than a tub of blood on Mars and when I persist about redder than iceboxes to Eskimos you suddenly turn to me about to elucidate I think but instead really just looking hard at me and say you are so handsome and you take my face in your cool, fine hands and the kitchen is as silent as the grave for just that second (a second as long as the day) and I am everything I've ever wanted to be

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