One definition of love
is the grocery list, its
shorthand reckoning
of common needs, peculiar
tastes and settled arguments,
scratches of Morse code
for rescue and surrender.
Our whim, the size of our waists,
health for wayward hearts,
tallied on the abacus
of household virtue and vice,
scrawled in chewed pencil.
Add your endearments
to cereal, cantaloupe,
and "Single malt Scotch."
Between us, back and forth, this
currency of days as they're
done, what comes to mind,
how it's minded. Why must you
ask does it matter someone
else does our shopping?
Thomas Healy
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