O Romeo, Romeo. I didn’t tell you everything.
I told you most of it because you told me your whole story
before I ever asked you anything.
What I didn’t tell you was how this whole thing started.
I was afraid you’d laugh or think I was crazy.
It was a dream.
A dream I’d had months earlier
that gnawed at me subconsciously
until I acted on it.
In the dream, I came home after work.
You were home early and surprised me.
(We lived together. I don’t think we’d married.
I remember our counter tops, though,
and the fact that our kitchen had the island
I’ve always wanted.)
You’d cooked for me.
For the first time since I’d known you,
you’d made a meal, and it was beautiful.
It was in a black roasting pan,
and you were wiping your hands
on one of our kitchen towels.
You were so proud. Proud the way a boy is
when he brings home his first A or his first trophy.
And I couldn’t say enough how happy I was.
You kept trying to cushion it.
You told me to wait because it might taste awful after all,
but I didn’t care because you’d made it.
You’d made the effort. And you were happy,
and that made me happy.
This was well before I knew you didn’t know how to cook.
That someday, this could really happen.
That you could cook for me.
That you could be that proud and happy.
I had to know.
I wanted to find out
whether that dream was prescient,
whether we’d be more
than just another daydream.
We weren’t, and that’s okay…
but isn’t it pretty to think so?
(Yes, this is the second poem of the day. It came to me later in the day, and I’ve never been a patient person, so I had to get it out. I’m relatively certain you won’t mind that I’ve gone beyond my goal for the day.)