April 29, 2007

• Sunday, Bloody Sunday

  Had a total shit day today.  So like a good little poet, I wrote something about it.

  If you’re looking for the tag, check out my post from yesterday.

  Steak and Potatoes

  The steak is not rare.
  Mashed potatoes grow cold
  waiting for the butter
  I have asked for two times.

  This solitary meal was to be a respite
  for the harshest of days
  as my knife clatters to the floor.

  In the midst of imperfection
  the culinary inconsistencies
  have served their purpose.

  I am not thinking about the best and brightest blood
  spilled in a Virginia dormitory
  by a wounded child of God.

  I chew my meat, and I am not thinking of Iraq
  and the war we’ll never win
  or the powerful men who cannot admit wrong.

  I stir the cooling spuds and do not think of my church
  and the beliefs I no longer care about,
  or of husbands who yell and sisters who lie.

  I do not think of the Naked Ride Home
  broken in my car as Jackson’s voice
  skips…skips…skips…instead of soothes.

  I tip the waitress well for the blessing of
  unbuttered mashed potatoes
  and steak that is not rare.

  At least the dessert was sweet.

   

   

  • 9:17 pm
  • 6 Comments