(after Mckendy Fils-Aime's "11/30")
You can get what you want
for dinner, and still never be
happy. She used to ask me
what I wanted; I would tell,
then come home to nothing
but a plate full of something
different. She could only cook
a few things, and none of them
very well. After nine-hour days
(three of which, just the travel
time) I'd be asked, could I cook
because she'd had a hard day
of watching John Edward's
"Crossing Over," exhausted
by all the closure she'd seen,
oh and could I do the laundry
too? This was the dull roar
than drained our life of life:
false promises, barren dinner
plates, resentment grown fat
on promises. John Edward
wasn't even his real name.
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