I don't know why I remember

the way Iceberg tasted against Swiss cheese after little specks of pepper

had been scattered across the surface

spat from an old wooden grinder that was worn smooth

where your shaking hands held it

The kitchen watched us

creaking in protest to being woken so late.

The knife begged us to go back to bed,

but sliced obligingly into that two-day-old loaf that held us all together

when I muttered I couldn't sleep

just yet

Something about the way I indulged in those simple tastes

and the relish with which I ate my "funny pieces" -

just bits of chopped cheese and deli meats

that you transformed into something delightful

with just your words and your authority of my world then -

made you know how much I loved you,

right?

I should be writing a memory poem, but that's all that'll come

just now.

We'll see what sober morning can come up with tomorrow. Perhaps it'll actually fit the assignment.