Happily Ever After
A poem about the rest of our lives

Happily ever after is
deciding what’s for dinner
every single night
for the rest of your life.

Happily ever after is
“leftover surprise” on Sundays
or breakfast-for-dinner
or fend-for-yourself-tonight.

Happily ever after is
“charcuterie” on the road:

crackers and cheese cubes
spread out on the console

a veggie tray
on the dashboard

unwashed grapes
in a plastic basket

deli meat slices
wrapped in wax paper

and a blanket across our laps
to catch the crumbs.

Happily ever after is
dirty dishes in the sink,
unsorted laundry in a pile,
and fuck it, let’s get takeout.

Happily ever after is
“snack-dinner” in bed,

a picnic served on bath towels
and cutting boards

with apple slices
and the “fancy cheese”

tearing off hunks of baguette
to dip into the pesto jar

while binge-watching that new show
about the gay pirates.

Happily ever after is
a fight about tomato paste
and thinking:
if this is the worst of our problems,
I think we’ll be alright.

Happily ever after is
deciding what to make for dinner

together
every night

and the mundane tasks
that sustain us

and knowing you’ll come home
to eat dinner in bed

or in a pillow fort
or curled up on the couch

or, on a rare occasion,
at the dining table.