Pot Brownies

I told her once from the depths
of the wingback chair,
that I have my priorities straight.
I made seventy different promises
laced with merchants and contacts,
and prior priorities and prior promises.

My brother doesn't like the brownies
that she brings. He says,
he can tell that she microwaved the butter
instead of letting it soften like it says to,
on the box. I think he's right,
when you microwave it like that-
it's all oily.
You can taste the incompetence.

I told her one more time that I have
those priorities straight,
as I slid my hands under the cover of jeans,
because my fingertips were cold.
She looked and didn't like it but a fight
would make her cry.
She'd worked too hard to look like a geisha
that night. I laughed-
when she didn't know how to hold the joint right,
and said it was kind of like how
she didn't know how to make brownies.



Response Poem:

I prefer to ramble about the menial:
chipped siding, slippery doorbells, dillapidated
patio furniture.
I hear them whisper "coward"
when I bring in the new Adirondack chairs,
the ivy drapes.

Caring is easier corporal
so I stay upstairs
and the boys stay downstairs.
I cook roast beef.
What's her face leaves before dinner-
her eyes red.
I ask her if she wants some Visine-
no, she has some in her car.

Maybe they had a fight.
Or probably, the dust under the sofa,
irritated her eyes.
I added "new broom" to the grocery list.
Right under,
"munchies" spelled in all caps.
I don't know what those are,
but I bet they're near the chex mix.