After the Reading

by Laura Morefield

 

We sit in a late-night café, stuck

With a surly lesbian waitress—all attitude

And long legs.  We order deep bowls of

Apple pie crested with vanilla ice cream.

 

Mom has just finished performing,

Her last poem a riff on being old,

Accompanied by sax and bringing down

The house.

 

Rob (one of many alternate sons)

Came to catch her part of the festival.

Jarring open the door when he arrived near

The end and hugging her

After the invisible curtain fell earned him the director’s

Disapproval.

 

He’d been cooking in his chop, turn, pour

Kitchen—no counter space, no island, just the warm smell

Of free range chicken sizzling,

The pungency of onion and garlic.

We could still smell the celery on his hands.

 

Our talk turns to recipes.  Rob uses parsley and

Ginger to snazz things up.  Mom throws in a potato

And some pea pods.  Mine is full of squash and asparagus,

Lightened with a splash of whatever white wine is

Handy.  Three poets comparing notes

On what is surely our life’s work.  Chicken soup for

The poet’s soul.