Pot of Cabbage

The shapes words make inside,

Shovin and shakin off the fog

(rubbing down their rough sides)

Works me in a way to feel so warm

And muddled, mushed in a haze,

Closed in the lap of a lass.

A pot of cabbage steaming on the stove watching me mingling,

Making faces with the fire and musing of close cloistered rugs,

Frothy mugs slapped down that masquerade as

Something less potent than the honeyed glue

That turns me into tipsy me, fuzzes and fools

My ears, my eyes, my mouth,

Is fazing me, lazing me

Into a static, sparkling quilt;

I’m glad I’m not wearing a kilt

because I’m unelegantly sprawled.