ON A PERFECT SUNDAY

Stephanie Kaplan Cohen

We both sleep late,
at least until 7 a.m.


This day,
we break training.
Lox, bagels, hot coffee,
cream, no decaf,
no skim milk.


Still in our nightclothes
we sink into the sofa,
read, do the puzzle,
nestle, and even nuzzle.


It’s lunchtime,
and again
we defy
the doctor gods.


Salami sandwiches,
rich with mustard,
and as a token salad,
down sour pickles.


Upstairs for a nap,
which is more than
a nap.
Happily


Rising again,
we spend
the rest of the day
watching old movies.


Dinner is more protein,
frankfurters, juicy

with sauerkraut,
our nod to a vegetable.


Another movie,
a few antacids,
and we happily go to bed,
burping all the way.

PROCESS

One window facing my favorite chair in which I sit and work is almost completely covered by a young man who joined the Navy when WWII started. That young man is my husband, a serious face, handsome, and ready to go to fight for his country. He left law school to join up. He looks at me, and I feel like I knew him then, and more about him than I knew when I married him.

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