biscuits

the oven burns off butter
or a blackened hunk of cheese.
you saunter in your apron,
laughing on bended knees.

the cherries on the oven mitts
have surely seen better days
but just like the rest of us
they have been worn
by your warming ways.

you smile gratefully as I whine over iced coffee
about my lack of compelling affairs.
because you have witnessed the tornados
once I've given in to wanting stares.

the kitchen is too hot.
my story is an exposed nerve.
still, you listen
grab the jam,
and biscuits
and wait for me to serve.