These bluejeaned teens in shirts
that say “I ♥ MY JOB” always ask:
Are we celebrating anything tonight?
Yes: we’re celebrating getting out
of the goddamn house showered
with passable outfits on.
Every book says I’ll miss this part.
Maybe early fatherhood is a state
best imagined from elsewhere, like this
Texas: imagined in Indiana, deposited
before a fading Sears in Kansas.
I love it here. The baby can’t
appreciate waiters dancing in the aisle
staring above all our heads. But I can.
How they keep chicken breasts
this moist is probably something
I don’t want to know. And holy moly
these green beans. I ask Kara for hers
but she says that’s an awful lot
of sodium. I’ve already eaten two orders.
We’ve become parents. My parents
say they’re proud, that we’re doing
a good job. But there are days when
I’m line dancing because I have to.
Where: 2329 Iowa St suite T, Lawrence, KS 66046
Who: The Poet, Kara, The Baby, The Poet’s Parents
What: My parents and I both ordered some variation on the BBQ chicken dinner. Kara got the four-sides-as-an-entrée but skipped her usual mac and cheese because we’re still not sure if the baby has a dairy insensitivity. I didn’t get the total because my dad insisted on paying.
Why: When you find a place that everyone agrees on—poet, wife, son, grandma, grandpa—you go. You go often.