Dinner

The wheel of life
on blue and yellow salad plates.
I arrange asparagus
spoke by spoke,
anointing them with sacred oil,
extra virgin.
Green, like my hope.
I want so much to please you.
So delicate,
my effort is excruciating.
Never caressing a lover
as tenderly as I rub
thyme
rosemary
garlic
into the chicken
you will eat over conversation.
You won't think of me.
I am a whisper
a shadow.
Silently,
I slip in and out of rooms,
bearing gifts you only see
as a meal.
Dessert arrives.
Poached pears
blushing like a maiden,
surrounded by sauces, candied flowers.
You say it is too pretty to eat.
But all I offer is consumable.
My skill
my craft
all perishable,
to be created each day.

I am Sisyphus
loading the dishwasher,
only to do the same tomorrow.