Sunday, February 12, 2017

Nothing for Dinner, Again

(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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