The Kitchen Sink – A Thanksgiving Poem
By Frank Weber
Dry crunchy leaves all swirl and sputter in damp smacks against the glass and she looks to the road through fogged window panes and in the crisp chilled air all the leaves flame up into a pumpkin orange trail settling over their old dusty road. Against the window pane she rests her cheek to wait with deep sighs and deeper swallows of Pinot and all the while the others are laughing and drunk so she keeps to her vigil her cheek pressed against the fogged window glass knowing that any moment will bring an end to her want and longing and lust. As her guests raise a roar over some odd-called play the bedded trail of leaves blows apart under the gleaming headlights of his truck as it comes into view and she breathes a deep breath of the kitchen around her with cinnamon and crisping-turkey-skin air but none of that matters now because he is finally there but the wind has grown colder and the window’s now covered with burnt orange plastering leaves and she can barely see him but none of that matters because he is finally here! She jumps to his arms and his arms lunge for her and they kiss under yellow foyer light his fingers clutch flesh underneath her red dress and she pulls it up higher and falls deeper in to his kiss. Her feet start to shuffle and her back starts to weaken and her head falls back in his arms his lips and his tongue kiss and flick at her neck and his nibbles brush across her shoulder as he brushes it bare. His hands take her waist and turn her around and he pulls her close to his chest and as she bends forward he lifts up her dress and clutches her hips in his hands so she bends herself deeper and looks over her shoulder and his closed eyes give her a chill for the want and the lust she can see in his face is more ecstasy than she can bear. He tears at her panties to the sound of footsteps clunking around out in the hall but the steps stop and turn back around where they came from but they didn’t matter anyway ‘cause he never stopped and he was already inside her and she grinds back on him and forces him in deeper and windows thicken more with their fog. His fingers find hair and tangle inside it and he pulls her head back by that hair and she lets out a sigh of pleasure relief and with another deep push he lifts her legs up and she’s off of her feet but all she can do is look up at the light that yellow foyer glow with her hands on the walls and his hand clutching hip and their bodies rocking in such a sweet sway but no one else knows and no one can hear them and if they could I don’t think they’d care ‘cause nothing can stop them and they would not allow it no matter who might be watching no matter who might be there. A cheer comes up from around the TV and what odd timing that is because out in that foyer the shudders and shivers and chills have begun to creep up in rapture for both of their bodies and they surrendered all control so they let it all go with a reckless abandon and collapse over against the door. He buckles his jeans and she straightens her dress and tugs at her panties beneath she looks in the mirror and straightens her hair and he’s there behind her and he can only admire and bend forward to kiss the exposed flesh of her neck. And the children run in and fill up the kitchen and playfully beg for their food so they look to each other and smile and usher them back out to grandpa’s chair and all move to the table and sit themselves down and just like that Thanksgiving Dinner’s begun. The food was plenty and the drink flowed freely and after a good long time Grandma leaned over and said in her ear, “What a lovely Thanksgiving, Dear, but…” Grandma looked around and made sure no one could hear her ‘cause she had quite a bit to drink and she smiled and said, “next time, Dear, try bending over the sink.” Happy Thanksgiving!
About Frank Weber:
Frank Weber is a freelance writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. He has been published in several print and digital magazines, local interest books and advertising campaigns as both writer and model. His work encompasses a firm conviction, a simple honesty in written word and enough of a raw edge to make people feel what they read. Website: www.frankietatts.com