The following is a prose poem I wrote. The most frequent question I get about it is if the guy in the poem is my husband or somebody else I know. Heavens! If Kirk were like him in any way, I wouldn't have married him! While I know some men like the character in the poem, never in such an extreme, this poem isn't about any individual specifically.
He has a habit of drop-kicking neighborhood cats when he gets home from work with his tool belt in flames. I’ve learned to ignore the flying felines even though my first pet was a cat. When he comes back inside, his tools turning to ash in his hands, I know the rule: food first. So I quietly spoon out his meal and wait for his plate to empty. Then I can talk, but only one thing: “Do you want more?” Grunt means yes. I don’t know what sound he makes for no because he’s never turned down seconds from me before. After, he gets up and takes a shower, which puts out the flames and steams the whole house. I stay downstairs and take another extinguisher from under the stairs and spray down the kitchen chairs and table. I clean up the dishes, wipe down the walls, and gather the singed cats. Then I write “extinguishers” on the shopping list on the fridge with the remaining bits of charcoal.