The cook and the lady must be more than friends.
Notice he keeps glancing through the swinging double doors?
Notice how his Chicken Curry Special makes her grin?
Later, at her house, he’ll slip off her dress, whispering
something in her ear about her complicated breath—
for which she’ll credit (in part) him and his spices.
Already, she’s anticipating the sixteen paradises.
And how she’ll fall asleep at last, beneath the wet silk covers,
her body indistinguishable from her lover’s.
If I could, I’d release the cook from his kitchen.
I’d let the lady take him home. I’d cook our chicken.
But my chicken always lacks precisely that necessary something.
