What’s for Dinner?
by Ash Krafton
She only ever smiles
and says, “Your favorite.”
And he beams at her, obviously thinking how lucky he is
to have such a doting wife
even though he plays around with the waitresses at the truck stop
and thinks his wife never finds out
and who cares, right? because those girls
never stay in town long enough to cause problems.
So lucky, lucky, lucky to have the best of both worlds.
She, on the other hand, is only too happy to
peel baby onions and carrots and pig potatoes
to put around the large, sumptuous roast
of questionable origins and morals
(roast beast, she said once, and laughed at her own joke,
earning a chuckle from the pandering bastard
as he cracked open his second beer. He hadn’t
even finished his salad yet, for chrissakes.)
This could never pass as a dish served coldly,
not when procured by such hot passions.
And she smiles back at him—
she may not be his favorite,
but at least she’s not left-overs.
