By Ken Pobo
My husband makes
zest from a navel
orange, carefully
putting each bit into a bowl.
A lazybones, I prefer
kitchen tasks done
quickly. Patient Stan
wants it to be right.
When he’s done,
I smell his orange
hands, Florida in
our dining room. He
lines up ingredients,
creates our dinner. I make
mashed potatoes—
lumpy. Beating them
tires me so he finishes.
We eat with frost
on the window,
a salmon orchid,
candles softly burning.
Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is a retired teacher. He and his husband enjoy the garden and watching birds. He has a new book out called Lavender Stones (Rockwood Press). He has poems forthcoming at Meetinghouse, Hamilton Stone Review, As It Ought To Be, and elsewhere.
The Q&A Queerzine 