Ode to Weeknight Dinner

Poem

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I didn’t catch this salmon.

I didn’t stand on the ladder

With spear and net, and snare it

Like my ancestors did

For millennia. I bought this holy

Fish at the supermarket.

I cook it on the stovetop 

Along with asparagus. 

I’m feeding my family.

This doesn’t feel as magical

As it should. Then again,

I doubt my ancestors believed

That every moment

Was magical. Today, I sing

For all those moments

When one of my ancestors

Was asked what they thought

Of some current event

And all they did was shrug.

O, the beautiful shrug.

O, the lift of shoulders

Toward the sky. O, the tilt

Of head to left or right.

O, the slightly curled lip

And raised eyebrows.

O, the joy of abstaining.

O, the joy of dispassion.

O, the joy of removing yourself

From the equation. O, the joy

Of eating a simple dinner

Of salmon and asparagus 

With the ones you love the most.

A dinner where nobody said

Anything of note. A dinner

Where nobody campaigned

For your vote. A dinner where

You cleaned the table, loaded

The dishwasher, kissed your wife,

Then, loving and loved, fell asleep

Beneath the reading light.