LOU RASMUS

She’s making jazz music
in the kitchen,
dropping pots and pans,
and I’m setting the table,
trying to dance
along.
She blushes.
She’s always been embarrassed
by how clumsy she is,
even though she knows that
I think it’s cute
that she’s so clumsy.

“Don’t make fun of me,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say,
and then I start drumming
with the silverware,
and stomping my feet,
and smiling at her until
she smiles back at me.

We’re making jazz music together
and it’s starting to snow,
and I can’t stop taking pictures
in my head, hoping
that I will remember
every minute of this,
but knowing that I probably won’t.
Because we’ve already had
a bottle of wine,
and I’m alreay having a hard time
keeping rhythm with
the forks.
But oh well,
this moment is all that matters.
Our first holiday together.