The Last Frittata

I hope, and (though I would prefer
Writing to saying so) believe,
The supper that I left to you
Is beautiful (off the record
It is, trust me, quite beautiful).

I made it, as, of course, you know,
'It's a fact you'd be first', indeed,
'To acknowledge'. Not, perhaps, foremost
In specifying - but I asked
for neither, nor for memory,

As I was making a beautiful supper
To last you some time, anyway.

Who's She?

Can she know it's against them,

Her long-term interests,

Craning forward her bright and her versatile neck,

Can she know that it baulks her,

That short-term advantage,

As she blocks, sidle-shouldering

The sauce of the fleck?

That hers is the meal, the least of the thing,

As hers is my service, hers my forced restraining,

As mine the maintaining, the spoon and the washing

For her clutch's gelled fattening?

He knows nothing about that, the long term advantage,

I'd clean up some cleaning and dine here and now,

This is pleasure; why hang up on sameness and order?

It doesn't stop ordure; human, confess now

How more than disgust took to staining your brow.