the early years

she always had a chicken
in the oven.
potatoes and corn
on the stove.
canned corn, a pad
of butter, some salt
and pepper. she called
it cooking. a package
of gravy.
we sat at the small
table her mother gave us,
in the narrow kitchen,
our backs against the wall
where the flowered
paper was worn and split
at the seams.
out the window we could
see the fenced in yard,
the other yards,
left to right.
their laundry on the line,
a rusted grille.
bicycles and shovels.
chicken was easy, cheap.
it made the house smell
nice, the smell of hope,
perhaps. sometimes
she'd put dandelions
in a vase, light a candle,
turn the lights
down. she meant well,
even if there wasn't love,
not true love. not the kind
of love we had for
one another. we had already
drifted apart, already
set sail for other ports
of interest.