Alright, my friends. This is the home stretch. And I still have one day--until my 30 days are up and until I leave for New York city (New York city?!)(Sorry I couldn't help it. I have been forever changed by an ad campaign for salsa. Not even good salsa!).

Tonight I have four brand new morsels for you. They're like four steaming hot little dumplings that I have lovingly placed in a priceless golden bowl for you to consume. Dumplings full of my anguish and disillusionment. No haikus (though one is prose). I put some real guts into these, because I love you. And as we all know, that's really the secret ingredient. Love, I mean, not guts. But you can't have love without guts, so I guess in the end it's all the same.

He Can't Stand the Heat

That time we made
chicken and rice
together,
I want it to be like that.
Like
handing you an onion
to chop
laughing
and drinking wine
so fast
that by the time
dinner is done
we aren't hungry anymore.
That's what I'd like
for us.
But you don't have
much patience
for prep work.
You'd just
end up in the living room
eating your ramen
again.

committed

it's never
what i want.
it's what you want
and when and where.
i'm an invalid.
a child.
an inmate
being rationed
pills of pleasure
and pain.
i point
to my mouth
and plead
ah?
ah?
ah?
but my caregiver
is resolute
and unflinching.
he threatens
to cut off
my hair.

Last Wake-up Call

In a town I don't know
on a street i've never seen
there's a cottage
with a little room for me

and in that room
there's a fire
and a blanket
and a chair
just big enough for two
and he's there

i've stopped hating cliches
and say all the things
that once made me cringe
i find ways to cook
smartly priced cuts of meat
and buy floral wallpaper
i sleep in a flannel
dressing gown
i dust

suddenly
the spatula in my hand
becomes a cigarette
the kitchen counter
a bar
my sensible flats
turn into strappy black heels

The bartender appears
and slides me a drink
He says
Only in your dreams,
and even then
that shit don't last.

Visitor

Do you remember when your brother came to visit and I met him for the first time? You went to the airport to pick him up and I stayed at the apartment because you'd started cooking pinto beans and they had to be mashed down regularly to turn out right. I was on mashing duty. I read my book and set the timer, and every few minutes I'd get up and give them a good working over. I was terrified your brother would hate me, I spent the time you were out trying to pay attention to the book, or the beans, but all I could really do was worry. I checked my face and hair a dozen times.

You blew back in like boys off the street do. Laughing, hungry.

We laid out all the special things you'd prepared for this visit: tender beef, guacamole, salsa, beans. You made a trio of fine margaritas to go with our fine Mexican feast.

For a while it was all video games and beer, and everything fun, in the dark wood-paneled living room of your apartment.

Your brother has been living here since some time last year, but I haven't seen him. I haven't seen you either. He has a girlfriend I've never met. So do you.

Someone else mashes the beans now.