Ambien Oatmeal

Mixing spoon in hand, she

Dropped her pink robe

Onto the kitchen floor,

Stepped slowly on top of it,

And rolled her body

Into the knots of wind

That had left Michigan

Four decades ago, thinking

About dancing and

How the leather seat

Of the white Corvette

Felt on her sweet, firm ass.

She danced in the kitchen,

And couldn’t understand

The fear on my face

As the dance continued.

One cup of coffee creamer,

Some almond milk, cinnamon

Sticks to your ribs, she sang,

Still dancing, still smiling

In a way she hadn’t in all

The years since leaving that.

She went on: With butter,

You can make the oatmeal

Slide down your throat,

All hot and spicy, like

Detroit in the ’70s,

When the north wind blew

Over the miles, and I swear

Little Stevie could see again.

She dropped to her knees then,

Stunned at how profound this

Oatmeal dance had become.

She licked the spoon, glancing

In that special Ambien way,

Saying Sammy, this

Could have been you.

Pink robe, cinnamon stick,

Traces of that once wild crop.