When Peggy Pokes The Fire

When Peggy pokes the kitchen fire

     She makes a picture fair;

I linger till I miss my car

     To see her working there.

She takes the poker half way up,

     Perhaps a little higher,

Falls on her knees before the range

     And starts to poke the fire.

Her slender arms are fair to see

     Bared to her elbows white;

Her graceful movements as she jabs

     Just fill me with delight.

Left handed? O, but what of that?

     I never could quite tire

Of seeing Peggy on her knees

     While poking at the fire.

What tho’ the coal comes tumbling down

     And one side all goes out?

She says a man can’t poke a fire,

     She knows what she’s about.

And so she pokes and jabs away,

     While I can but admire

The warlike picture she presents

     While poking at the fire.

I often wish to move away,

     Upon a better street;

Where Peggy could attain the set

     She always yearned to meet.

But one thing ever holds me back

     From promenading higher;

Poor Peg’ would find gas ranges there,

     And couldn’t poke the fire.

Jan. 16, ‘05