KITCHEN

When you suggested making kitchen space for a washer and dryer, I considered your consolidation proposal and wondered if you would be snug within either machine and be open to hide and seek as you vibrate or rotate — an unattainable quaintness regarded in a bedraggled sufficiently dismissive spin. Kitchen, naturally, reclaims nothing, nor did I approach it with a quantifiable frame, but I must have, thereafter, a diffracted regionally held disgust — the twinge that keeps me at it. 

The kitchen counter, with a pelvic height matching your groin, concentrated and sheathed while enveloped with a versatility that does nothing but tease and throw want for me to draw a disguised presence upon marble.

This stuff was understood, nothing to extract, no indelicacy, not a deterrent, could even be referred to as a promptitude of misguided assumptions based on utility space, basic cooking area so observed. You can roll and rinse and I dry or switch it, this rueful machinery in clutch before my intensified start, but actually only entangled by the measured presentability distinctly allotted.