From the Spring 2013 issue of The Antioch Review
You are doing your assiduous distaff thing, slicing
Idahos, dicing scallions, vacuuming the hautboy, what-all. I
love these peppy kitchen-and-living-room scenarios. The
whiff of an ironing board in heat; the subdued twilight
of a punched-up microwave, photons strafing the
left-over mac-and-cheese although nothing at all
seems to be happening–these drive my idle boat
between nostalgia and a sort of Westinghouse pavilion
awe. Not that I partake in such domestic initiatives
myself (being one of those who buys takeout and waits
for the tumbleweeds to come blowing down the hall, evoking
some whistled Sons of the Pioneers theme, before plucking
broom from closet or dustpan from wherever it’s gotten to).
You, on the other hand, like imposing yourself on your wares,
buffing formica to a spanking, lapidary shine, making
the oven gestate and the garbage-disposal unit in the drain
suck and gurgle on potato skins. I relish these enterprises
from a distance, whereas you prefer to have your hand
on the tiller, or what do you call that clutch-like apparatus
that turns the kitchen sink into a slurping, mechanical maw, boisterous
and dangerous? Go ahead: Indulge yourself! I’m right behind,
savoring the sponge-crunching, cachepot-dusting, ratty-doormat-beating.
Bill Christophersen‘s poems have appeared recently or will soon appear in Comstock Review, Hanging Loose, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Main Street Rag, Rhino, Right Hand Pointing, and Sierra Nevada Review. He plays traditional and bluegrass fiddle and lives in New York.
© 2013 The Antioch Review
