He eats a peach
perched sidesaddle on the kitchen sink’s lip, leaning
as if posed for a photo, wrist tilted
back, palm out, cradling the fruit
so as to channel its nectar
neatly to the basin. Watch: he cranes
his head for another generous bite; neck tensed, briefly
sucks at the sun-syrup entrails
then, chewing, untwists again.

With one dangled foot, he’s been kicking the cabinet
closed and closed and closed,
beating uneven time.
Clean plates recline in rising light,
their bright blank faces angled
up to him.

Presently, he regards
the exposed pit, the last
scraps of pulp left to its blood-red grip.
Later perhaps an intimate fling
with a toothpick; now,
he rinses his fingers
of the thin gold dripping along them.