The last gasp of husbandry, sweet potatoes, vegan greasy spoons, and a medical crisis averted - the Tuesday poem roundup

What I wrote Sat, 4/26 to Tues, 4/29

Happy Tuesday, y’all. Writing this from a Florida hotel, where, as I type, the wife is MacGyvering yet another adjustment to our little one’s chair, which may or may not involve sacrificing one of my socks and a pair of my underwear. She’s the best. Many poems to be written there…

But before that, a weekend of fresh, well-seasoned poems for you. As always, the original book is here for the taking. Click the button!

Okey doke.

4/26/25
Unscrewing a cap
That, moments ago,
   was sealed shut,
   unopenable,
Is probably the last 
Token of traditional 
   husbandry 
That you and I do.
“Honey, can you open this?”
“Sure!”
When we both know 
You have the strength 
   of centuries 
In your wrists 
And could easily dispatch 
That cap yourself.
But thanks for 
   letting me.

As much as I’d like to think I’m an enlightened male of the 21st century, there are some cro-magnon, purely physical feats of strength that somehow still give me satisfaction. Unscrewing a stubborn top to a jar, can, or bottle is one of them.

4/27/25
When you microwave 
A sweet potato 
For your little one 
At 11pm
   for next day’s lunch 
The sweet smell 
Perks up 
Your droopy lids,
Your dragging feet,
Your slowly rising fear 
   that maybe the night 
   really does go on forever.
But, it doesn’t.
Soon, the potato will cook,
The oven will ding,
You will clean up,
Switch off,
Turn in.
And tomorrow,
   your daughter will eat.

Another late-night missive about doing late-night things that keep life going the next day. Sweet potatoes occupy a special place in our family, as they are a part of most lunches and dinners for our little one. At home, we roast them in the oven. On the road, it’s the hotel microwave. It’s one of the more reliable things in the Universe. Always sweet, always good for you, always something the little one likes.

4/28/25
If we met at a steakhouse lounge, 
Even though neither of us 
   eat steak,
Would we share a salad 
Or grilled broccolini?
Would we order a brandy
   or scotch 
Even though neither of us 
   drink?
Or would we look at each other 
And say
   let’s get out of here.
And sprint away 
To a vegan greasy spoon 
With chalkboard menus 
And tattooed staff
And dingy nooks
   to sit and talk?

People have this impression of vegans that we are healthy by default. For us, anyway, it’s not always the case. Some of our best meals have been at vegan joints that have fed us scrumptious, greasy treats that we still talk about today. Places like Strong Hearts in Syracuse, Veggie Galaxy in Cambridge, MA, and the dearly departed Sustys in Northwood, NH.

4/29/25
I just yawned 
And almost 
   swallowed my pen.
If there was ever proof 
That you can write something 
About anything 
That happens 
   this is it.
Now, if I had actually 
Swallowed it,
That would be something 
   worth writing.
As it stands now,
   it’s a big old pile of nothing.
So, I guess the question 
Left to ask it
   would you give me
   CPR
   if I had actually
   swallowed it?

This actually just happened. I had pen in hand to write today’s poem and, as a big yawn approached, raised the hand that held the pen up to cover my mouth…and nearly dropped it. Would’ve made for a much more exciting poem.

Wednesday marks the end of National Poetry Month, so you’ll get my final installment and a preview of what’s coming in May. :)