Splitting an order.
Splitting an Order
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky arms steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
observing his progress through glasses that moments before
he wiped with his napkin, and then to see him lift half
onto the extra plate that he asked the server to bring,
and then to wait, offering the plate to his wife
while she slowly unrolls her napkin and places her spoon,
her knife, and her fork in their proper places,
then smooths the starched white napkin over her knees
and meets his eyes and holds out both old hands to him.
-Ted Kooser
I know who I want to be splitting my order with. And no, it's not Johnny Depp. Or Johnny Cash. Or Johnny Appleseed. Or Johnny Unitas. It's my Johnny.
My thanks to Lisa Smith who gifted me with a personalized, signed copy of a book of poetry by Ted Kooser this weekend: "Dear Patti Digh, You are the soy roast beef in my sandwich, the organic, recycled free trade napkin on my lap," he inscribed it. Or perhaps he simply beautifully wrote "For Patti Digh." Billy Collins had better watch out. That's all I'm sayin.'
