Rooted and Stewed

Winter sunset has us out in the dusk 

The first time in months

Fish sounds good? it has been a while

Court St twinkles with Democratic smiles

We reach the line and query the sign

sea bass, artic char, tuna graded for sashimi...

some caviar? I ponder, but nah, don't be too greedy

Silent seconds pass as we consider the options 

cycling in our minds: the possible concoctions.

Then we both feel it: the poultric craving 

I don't say it (what if I'm only projecting?)

The words come from her - "Chicken and taro?"

Forget the fish, our sights have been narrowed!

We reel from the line

Leave those suckers behind.

The night is set, with her favorite food

And the other is mine: a chicken that's stewed.

We relish in our covenant, strolling up towards Atlantic

"I LOVE THIS WOMAN!" causes an old man to twist frantic.

Minutes later we are home with thighs and root.

Left to happily consider our joy at such a humble loot.

But the true source of our contentedness? It's far from mundane. 

Should I tell you now? It might just sound lame...

The feeling I reference is our total affection,

And it is stronger, now, than at all recollection. 

I feel its source at my roots, soaring up through my thighs 

And I see it in your smile, which is seen best in your eyes.