He likes his bacon crisp.
Cadaverous. Yardstick stiff.
Twenty years of Sunday morning
She turns the radio on. Oldies.
My, how the bacon swoons! Snaps
its fingers against the rendering
of heat and memory.
He’ll never approve the way tongues
now curl into a kiss, how edges
gather like pintucks in a prom dress.
Or that boy in the blue tux
stepping from song to stove
swaying behind her, the warm dance
of hands pressing her satin robe.
Never mind the wrinkles.