Kitsch

Once I read you the word,

you say I’m

a kitsch.

And your fingertips
contemplate, caress
the sepia-tones
lips you kiss; Sometimes

I think how,

timid,

pigtailed, kitchen-bred,
I so quietly
enjoyed coating bread
with creamy custom.

I think of

kitty’s

drab coral ribbons:
granny’s own handpicked,
my kindred; feline
cool lost on my clunk.

This fake-wood

staircase,

—devolving?
my palm-lines, curving,
quite haphazard
for a catechism—

And I choose

to read

Them; have them tread on
by henna, dough, my
baton busy in-
between back and forth.

I love you,

earnest,

though you think our love
ironic: Me, quaint,
waltzing through your mind;
You, in double-time.