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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