I dislike this world of false productivity
and a warden over my shoulder, fingering a whip
with the weight of his winter bonus.
I want canning jars stacked to perfection
in the pantry, full of peaches
tomatoes, beans, and jams made from
every berry. Here real work is done.
People are fed; we taste the seasons
in Christmas cookies and candies.
Solids are whisked up into gases that
melt to liquid in your mouth.
This is the world I love.
Let me live here and never leave
unless to go to market,
to cut fresh flowers from
the beds, to tuck in sheets
and pound life back into sleepy-head-dented
pillows. Leave me alone with a house
and my own spreadsheet—
grocery lists of raw ingredients
I will transform to carry us all through
the work week. You can take the
corner office. And I will have the world
in my kitchen.