We’ve been thinking through gratitude this month, with the topics loosely oriented around the supper table. Today Kevin shares a piece of poetry that somehow reminds me of an old episode of The Andy Griffith Show, but that’s another topic altogether. Nice work, bullfighter.
As an aside, if any reader can name the form, I’ll mail a forty pound turducken their way, just in time for the Thanksgiving meal…
An agreement made seven years ago:
she would cook, I would clean. Culinary
balance restored before it was broken.
My knuckles split once in the winter. Hands
beneath water, fingers rubbing forks, while
cold air scrubbed off skin like dried sauce from plates.
My wife finds a travel mug in the car,
bug-gut thick coffee and cream fuzz around
the bottom. I uphold my end, and sulk.
Still, I like the sink and the liquid heat,
the Do to Done piles dipping down dirty
through baptismal lathers. My priestly hands
pickle to the hilt, sleeves to the elbows,
my thoughts washed in the quiet of our life.