American Foods, American Marriage

He was raised pimiento cheese spread

Polyester pants 

Orange and yellow formica,

Cole slaw made with cabbage, ramen and mayonnaise.

California casual, 

Neighborhood kids on bikes

in the cul de sac and 

movies at the mall.

I came up boiled meat and potatoes

Brown bread and baked beans

Boots with felt liners, hand knit mittens, home sewn dolls.

Unfinished wood walls, tar paper roof, kerosene lamps.

Yankee solid and make-do,

Walk an unplowed mile to the bus stop, 

Car with no gas to visit friends, won’t start anyway,

battery dead from cold.

I spend Spring Break snowshoeing

solitary through hemlocks

heavy with snow.

College.  We meet.  Graduate. Merge lives.

Differences are exciting and new.

I learn avocado, freeways, and abundance

He learns auctions, firewood, and not enough to eat.

Chaffing begins.  He says,

I hate when you add an ’s to the grocery store name.

You don’t know the difference between bring and take,

And you can’t even point correctly. 

Someone’s wedding and the need for a suit jacket.  I say,  

thrift store,

vintage and cheap. 

He scowls and goes to Macy’s.  

We scrape against one another for eighteen years. 

Rub raw.

Become numb.

Break apart. 

Two households now.

His mom consoles him with a new couch

Special ordered from a catalog.

Some sophisticated shade of brown,

A special kind of weave, fabric selected for texture.

He has it delivered to his new town house.

I move to the high desert,

New Mexico, off-grid adobe,  

I bring my avocado green,

found-on-the-side-of-the-road chair and the shabby

electric blue Victorian couch

Our mutual friend from college

rescued from a dumpster

a long time ago.