The Rusty Ol' Pot and the Pretty Little Jewish Kettle, Conflated with Joan Rosenberger

My little Jewish kettle lights me up inside and makes my whole body belch. I'm the pot, so I've got ample room to inhale deeply the pure love that wafts my way when her spirit steams up beside me, on the Appalachian stovetop, the front porch, her little ass, perched beatifully and barely flattened in the seat of the rocking chair my mommy gave me. I even saved her cigarette butts. I am completely happy. I love my little kettle. Understand that from time to time there appears this little kettle on my porchtop! It waits for me, too, from time to time to time. I may be a little late, but I always appear while she waits. When I touch her arm, her spirit taps me and I sound off inside like the lowbell. I ring for you, Little One. The kettle may not know that her spirit has befallen the pot, but I have a hunch she does. In fact, I know she does and I know she knows I know. I'm the happiest pot on the planet, with or without her. That makes me unafraid to lover. And she ain't even all mine. A woman like Danielle needs more than one man. Perfect. Life provides an infinite varitity of love, and this one seems to be very special, mutually shared, boundaries both respected, my stubborn and attempted breaches of her wailing wall notwithstanding. I just know that this wonderous thing has selected me, so I am entirely grateful and seized with stewardship; see, now and then, this pretty little kettle appears and steams up my front porch. Thank you eternally, Joan Rosenberger. You were my very first love. You lit the fuse. You kissed me on the mouth when I was a little boy. You were 15. I was eight. Greatest babysitter ever.

I do not, nor will I ever need her. I make sure she knows that, too. Voluntarily detaching from this woman, especially after ending thirty years of prozac, has been very goddamned real, and we're both better off on account of it. See, I fell in love with you, D.