No, don’t apologize….
It’s me who is wrong;
I should be grateful for my “cush” lifestyle,
I should feel honored to brown the butter,
to don the apron nightly,
to make magic for you
squinting in awe,
as the oils eek out what looks like
my reflection on the Teflon of the hot pan?
I should feel whole, just squeezing that lemon….
I should feel uplifted….joy in the steam wafting up,
I should feel renewed?… that sizzle,
And comforted…in the routine with the lemon,
I should feel giddy that you are on your way home.
Don’t get me wrong,
I do take great pleasure….
In your fight with traffic,
as you navigate your way back to me,
Maybe tonight, you will check to see what I am wearing,
Give me the familiar quick whiskery peck
as my rounded lips turn to you,
I’ll be present; and notice, if my eyes avoid yours or not?
I hunch busily over the stove,
cooking is art you know.
Perhaps at times I act “super into” what I’m cooking cause,
It is dinner time and while you have deadlines,
I read the cookbook, for fun.
I snicker as I count the times you ask me to clean the fridge,
It’s good, I mean don’t get me wrong….
You….you just start cleaning it, so I know Its time,
I take great pleasure,
In watching you lift the fork,
knowing that bite came out of a clean fridge,
“just taste it” ( then look at me)
Yes, my cooking, , “ my art” makes me prideful
another bite, and another, how many is that?
If we add up each bite, each night at dinner-
Times sixteen years, how many is that?
Anyway….so long as you make those pleasing sounds,
I guess I can let go-after all-you’re the breadwinner,
you don’t write poetry,
Who would expect you to read…… mine?
I know at least I’ll never have to eat alone?