In the garden this morning,
I knelt to pinch the basil back
and found a baby rabbit
mild and untouchable as a baked potato.
He'll be my guest tonight
sitting at the dream table between you and me
wearing a double-breasted aluminum jacket.
In the salad bowl, an argument Bill and I had about money—
crisp Lincolns tossed in a lemon vinaigrette.
Frank's cancer's a Charlotte Russe
lying like a stray bullet on the counter.
All our daughters are grown, Sarah.
Why still cook when the chairs are empty?
The mind's eye's for imagining,
but the mouth of the mind is a gullet
where our days empty out
—the everyday, the unbearable, and the good—
and the night kitchen serves it up with iced mint tea
as fast as we can wash it down.
TODAY IN SLATE
More Than Scottish Pride
Scotland’s referendum isn’t about nationalism. It’s about a system that failed, and a new generation looking to take a chance on itself.
What Charles Barkley Gets Wrong About Corporal Punishment and Black Culture
Why Greenland’s “Dark Snow” Should Worry You
If You’re Outraged by the NFL, Follow This Satirical Blowhard on Twitter
The Best Way to Organize Your Fridge
The GOP’s Focus on Fake Problems
Why candidates like Scott Walker are building campaigns on drug tests for the poor and voter ID laws.
Giving Up on Goodell
How the NFL lost the trust of its most loyal reporters.