Lemon Meringue

Her nude curves peaked
on checkered tablecloth,
cooling like a hot lemon
pie; My brown chin hairs
full of her meringue,
for my eager inability
to wait before digging in.
She, like me, felt full
after our heaping helping
of seconds,
which felt more like hours.
Now, she sits on a shelf;
Her box awaiting
midnight cravings— which come
with the certainty of clock gongs
at twelve.

Meanwhile, that checkered tablecloth
hangs outside, flapping white squares;
Dust upon the waning hours
of my neighborhood.
Somewhere, a storm is rumbling—
lighting the sky like a pitch black kitchen;
The refrigerator door creaking open—
and shut
by the widening of her mouth.

written on 04/24/2011 by: Matt Kane