He Is a Pine Cone Collector

She let me warm my hands on her breast

While she brought the wine glass from the Restore

To my lips.

She said her toes were cold from waiting,

While I had picked pine cones from the ground around the mailbox

And laid them on the bush 

Outside my door. 

They would look fine 

In the bowl

Beneath the cadenza. 

And that had led from taking out the garbage 

And from a shower after a nap

While her toes grew cold from waiting.

Yet she let me warm my hands upon her breast,

While she served me refrigerated wine,

From a spigoted box. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I am the she. He is the pine cone collector 

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