Strange Dance

I am doing the dishes stoned and naked
as some southern bluesman turns on the stereo,
sending me in a slow-step
across the kitchen
and back to the warm sink.
I finish up the plates, bowls and glasses
and come to the knives,
one by one cleaning them with soap and a sponge
and sliding each back into its wooden sheath.

I come to the large one, with the sharpest blade
which, if television can be trusted
can cut through a tin can.

I slide the sponge over the blade
and pause to entertain the prurient thought.

But how.
Out the window it is late afternoon in October.
The sky is exploding a sad red
and oranges, before night.
On a country road, not far from here
the posts of barn are hurriedly taking shape before winter.
I am waiting for her to get home from work
to turn on the stove and prepare dinner.

Still, I am thinking of burning of a bridge.
Not the George Washington or Golden Gate
or Tappan Zee over the Hudson into Nyack,
or the Bay to buy used books on Telegraph Ave.
But burn a bridge, and forcefully
so that you will no longer respect me.