Wednesday, Cheeseburger Macaroni, a pound
of ground beef from a corn-fed cow
raised only a few miles away, slaughtered
even closer. Its fat greases Farberware.
Lambrusco, $9.99 a bottle, purples
a water glass that does not belong to a set.
The TV competes with the kids’ portable DVD
player in a decibel war with no real loser,
save my sanity. The better part of my 30’s is gone,
along with the worse part. My husband cracks open
a can of Busch, deploys the footrest on the recliner,
waits for supper, getting up only to spit
tabaccoed saliva in the kitchen sink drain.
Generic green beans, French style, topple
from can to pot, criss-cross, mound above water.
I shed earthy skins into the trash can,
the peeler moving in lengthwise rhythm. I am
already tipsy when the man I love says
someday we will remember when we were young
enough to grow our own potatoes.
Photo By: Chiot’s Run
