Evening meal

SALTY soup boils on our gas-fired stove, a hock of pork a
SLOOP on a broiling potato sea. The kitchen’s face is
STEAMing. My sweating mother sees me, stops me,
TRUSSes my arms to my side: “I know your taste buds’re itchin.’”

Portrait of a Bygone Harbor

STEAM ships barrel in and out,
SALTY air, crying gulls matching the capitalist energy.
SLOOP more leisurely embarks.
TRUSS the rigging, sea’s bouncing today.

(I have no idea if “truss the rigging” makes any nautical sense)

Home alone

HEAVY-handed Frederick in his wife’s
FRILLy apron loads the dishes in the
FALSE-fronted dishwasher, sets the
CYCLE as he wishes. The water swishes.