pot pies

two pot pies were baking in the oven on a cookie sheet to catch
their bubbling over. i told my wife, the pots pies are almost done.
i took a hot pad in my hand and opened the oven door. see? i turned around,
my wife behind me in the kitchen. i’m not having pots pies tonight, she said.
she stood at the kitchen counter, preparing meat. she had all kinds of meat—
briskets and steaks and racks of ribs slathered with barbecue sauce.
but the pot pies are almost done, i said. i pointed into the opened oven.
the pot pies bubbled over, drippings sizzling on the cookie sheet.
my boyfriend’s coming over for dinner, she said. we’re not having pot pies.
she took the hot pad from my hand, pulled the cookie sheet with its pot pies
out of the oven, set it aside, and slid in a rack of ribs. maybe i’ll go eat
someplace else,
i said. if you like, she said. she closed the oven door,
handed me the hot pad, took off her pants and climbed into the refrigerator.
she pushed her way in among the milk and juice, found a place on the crowded shelves
and sat, looking at me. you can still live here if you like, she said,
but we’re not married anymore. did you forget? you forgot, didn’t you?
she rested her feet on the condiment shelves. the pot pies were cooling
on the cookie sheet, ready for me to eat.

(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)

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