(after John Straley’s every single day)

Suppose I said the words “dinner time”
and I wrote the words “chicken piccata”
on a piece of paper
and mailed it to you
from many miles away.
When you opened it,
would you remember those nights we spent
trimming chicken thighs and
mashing capers in melted butter
because no other recipe could compare?

Or would you remember that time I sent you
pictures of that very same dish, only this time
made overseas, with my hands only,
and you,
noticing the lack of capers,
asking me where they’ve gone?

I know I am difficult to understand sometimes,
particularly when you are standing
on the front steps of your apartment
holding a stamp-covered envelope
and the words “chicken piccata”
in your hands. But just consider it
an overdone metaphor
that I can never cook
or be quite the same
without you.