Workshop Poem #2

Getting My Hands Dirty

3:30 A.M.

I eyed this place

on my way to dinner.

People come in from all over,

do their business,  

and leave.  I can’t blame them;

I’m just like 'em:

stand mixers kind of

turn me on too.

This first time, though,

it was your blender that got me,

chopping bits of chocolate

better than anyone I’d ever known.

I took the pieces and

melted them in a bowl over boiling water.

The aroma was strong,

almost overpowering,

but I would long for it for weeks.

Seven hours there

and I was like the crumbs,

fused to the baking pans.

12:15 A.M.

I went again,

right after clocking out from classes.

It was too early. 

As I hand-grated

three cups of carrots,

people would barge in.

Can’t they see we’re busy here?

Why can’t they microwave their food somewhere else?

I brushed them away

like the flies that prey on our children.

But later, I shared our carrot cake babies

with them, and I think they were

more than glad to have given us

some alone time.

                                                                  

8:20 A.M.

It’s never a walk of shame

            when I visit or leave you.

And no, I don’t care about all the other people

            you’ve been with.

I’ll bring you gifts every time I see you.

Let me pack your frosty racks with them.

People think I’m cheating on someone with you,

but no one beeps at me like you do.

I just tell them you’re the best equipped—

but you know I love you for you.

After all, together we make

the most delicious gingersnaps.  

I don't write love poems to girls.  I write them to kitchens.

Talk about being gayyyy... bahaha.

This poem is about Will Rice's kitchen.  Which is hands-down the BEST college kitchen at Rice.  Like seriously.  Go check it out.  She has everything.

Thoughts?