husband hides in kitchen
with our baby son stirring
the same pot for therapy.
sauce is sauce is still sauce
bubbling, burning at the edges
I am tangoing in our living room
in some other-world with my family,
but what does that word mean: family?
not elbows on the table passing
baskets of warm bread, butter
coffee on, television off, talk
heavy with plans for the new year
those are thoughts for daydreams.
my son drinks milk from a bottle
and I am kneading our livelihood
nearby, adding sprinkles, making shapes
only my husband sees, smiles.