Our Island

From the moment we first saw it

at the Alameda Market, you jumped.

 

It was the jewel of Julia Child’s kitchen you said.

An elegant baker’s table.

 

With a single long drawer on one side

and wheels that easily slide when carrots fly…

 

I didn’t understand your enthusiasm, nor did I know it’s worth.

The man wanted $70 for it. You didn’t dicker

 

when you handed him the money.

He said wearily, “a lot of people tried to get me to take less.”

 

You didn’t try to play him

and you don’t play me.

 

It’s the magnetic hub where we converge

huddled over an island of white porcelain.

 

Chopping lettuce, red cabbage for a simple salad,

Your hand reaches across with julienned carrots to find me, waiting.