Being Nice Is Making Me Miserable

When my husband brought home two 

Turkey roasts instead of one

Because the butcher misunderstood his French –

Heard dix-sept instead of sept–

Oh Christ.

I was mad because I had to cook it,

Opening and closing the oven door. 

He didn’t have the heart to only buy one,

The butcher so carefully tied the meat with string.

I got some odd pleasure from the twin slabs,

White bacon fat snuggling the pale pink meat,

Like swaddled babies,

Squeezable footballs,

Strangled calves in gladiator sandals,

A rubber band around your finger’s bulging skin.

I massaged them with oil and sat them side by side in a shallow pan,

Felt the heat on my face in a whoosh from the oven.

“What if you didn’t have the money?” I asked.

“But I did,” he replied.

“Gosh why do we always have to be so nice” I said.

“We are literally paying for it!” I shouted.

Then I set the table with cloth napkins and our nice glasses,

Carved the roasts with a sharp knife,

The fork in tight.

“Slices easy,” I said, 

“Wow, succulent.”

Placed the glistening pile as the centerpiece,

Our double bouquet of meat.