You stand
at the kitchen counter
your back to me
swaying
slightly.
Your head shakes
and you suppress a grin
shaking your head
as I babble out my latest
morbid fantasy
that you are
leaving
me.
But suddenly
my shrill voice trembles
and softens--
I am comforted
just by the sight of you
standing
at the kitchen counter,
your trouser cuffs tucked under
your heels
the legs
too long for you.
My anxiety is swallowed up by
something larger
at this glimpse of you:
my crying trails off to
subdued hiccups
and I feel a strange,
fierce
love for your small feet
your trousers,
too big.
Then you turn to face me
holding two cheese sandwiches
and smiling, say:
"I love you,
warts and all!"
This is
What it is,
I think--
Love in baggy pants
carrying a swiss on rye.
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