He anoints my feet
Death is coming.
In the end, I want no tubes.
When it is my turn,
Mr. Clean wipes away the children’s
dhogle.wordpress.com) and brand and communications strategist living in Manhattan. Mud Season Review, Minetta Review, Blast Furnace, Shooter, Clapboard House and DoveTales from Writing for Peace are among the journals that have published his poetry recently.
Tamsen Boucher put the spinach soufflé in the oven, very carefully, at exactly twelve forty-five. It was an audacious decision, perhaps a foolhardy one. She was well aware that a successful soufflé is a matter of perfect timing, a tricky business, and that this one would be done and ready to serve in just thirty-five minutes. As she shut the oven door Tamsen closed her eyes and sent out an appeal to the universe, wishing fervently that the luncheon would be a success. Her husband had driven to the airport to pick up their weekend guest. As Craig was all but useless in the kitchen anyway, the job of chauffeur fell to him. The car would be pulling into the driveway in about ten minutes, if all went according to plan. If they were late, the soufflé would be a disaster.
He held me close to him, a hard, heavy hug, clasped tightly together; we held it for just a beat longer than normal until we pulled apart. Usually he would tell me he loved me and was proud of me but today, today he went off-script.
“You know, I’ve always admired how you can always get yourself out of a situation my girl--you can go out and get yourself another job and not miss a beat,” he said.