MENU. or: write, rewrite, peer edit, rewrite again...

Found this post-it note on the sidewalk in front of the convention center while walking my dog. I read it, re-read it, and it stuck with me as found art. Wondered about who must've written it, why, and what they were thinking while writing... and got the poem below it.

menu. start with sunday
night. pot roast with onions and peppers, tomatoes, potatoes.
white rice with garlic. stewed carrots.
you will talk about your day and i
will listen.
strawberry and jasmine tea.
early bedtime, just some kissing.

monday next.
grilled thighs, sweet potatoes, green
beans. heavy petting during dishes,
so much work to do.
pineapple salad. floss,
watch two shows, then bed.

tuesday third. afternoon yoga class.
walk the dog in the park with
out you again,
sushi to-go. i'll watch a tear jerker and
go to bed before you come
home but only after leaving you a note
about leftovers in the fridge.

wednesday. lunch with your mother:
iced green teas, she will casually joke about grandchildren again, and i
will listen.
for dinner i will make a lasagna casserole and cheesy bread
and steam vegetables and when you come home i will attack you
with kisses until you relent and hold me like you used to.
after intimacy, we will reminisce and laugh like we used to.
tiramisu will be forgotten in the fridge until breakfast on

thursday. with coffee.
my day to work late and when i come home you
have left me

a note about leftovers in the fridge.
meatloaf. mashed potatoes. poppy peas. remorse.
i still remember the first time i told you i loved you
and every time since that one.

then friday i will open
one can tomato soup eaten with saltines
and when you come home entirely too late smelling of beer
and cigars (which i was sure you hated)
i will wake up just enough to roll over
and cling to you and not let go
and neither will you.

saturday i
will grab a chai,
walk across the bridge sipping it slowly and
stop to stare over the edge a tiny bit too long.
go home and fold all your shirts just right except
for the one i'm sure you'll wear first which i will fold
all wrong just so you might say something.
you won't.
margarita pork chops. grilled corn. wilted spinach with cumin and garbanzos.
you will smile and tell me it reminds you of spain while i
will listen to the words you don't say: it reminds you of us in spain.
a girl will take what she can get sometimes.
a pint of ice cream shared with graham crackers.

sunday again. we will have dinner out
(you will have tuna, i’ll have the duck)
catch a show
talk too little on the drive home
then make the best love we've made
since that trip and the night with the spinach con garbanzos.
afterward we will lay to
gether in the silence
and listen.