I read your poems aloud
to my wife as she makes us salad,
a task she says she hates
but whose tedium I can relieve
by reading poetry,
which she also says she hates.
She asks for the “New and Selected” and “Other”
verses while she tears lettuce and
scoops avocado and digs olives from a jar,
putting too few in my bowl and too many in hers,
even though when I count them we have the same number.
And she interrupts you all the time with laughter,
putting you in the good company of
every movie, novel, meal, television show,
or walk with no destination in mind
that we’ve ever enjoyed together.
If you keep writing poetry, then I
will keep reading it to her
and we will keep eating salad,
which I’m sure you’ll agree
is a fair trade.
