Tuesday Soup

In Monday’s soup, you put in

What you have –

Leftovers from Sunday,

Chicken, red rice, cilantro.

On Tuesday, you put in

What you have

Even less of now,

The one leftover piece of dark chicken

Nobody wanted, the suspect

Rice with the black-rim

Stain from something, something

That got dropped, or from a spoon

Dipped into something else first

Then used in the rice, a stain

Growing darker by the hour,

Darker and bigger.

On Tuesday, dinner skates

At the edge of the ice.

Wednesday is something safe,

Starting over with fresh beans,

A trip to the grocery store, jícama,

Bananas and chilies, all fresh, all new.

Thursday survives by luck,

Living on the enthusiasms of Wednesday,

The small piece of pork that was on sale,

The other extras, the olives,

The big sack of soft avocados

Too ripe to wait, which is why they were so cheap.

Friday begins the weekend,

Three days that take care of themselves in the world.

But Tuesday, Tuesday is what people remember,

Like it or not, Tuesday, so easy to forget

Otherwise. Tuesday, always circumstance and luck,

A day in which gamblers sit at the dinner table,

Unfortunate and miserable. But in the quiet attempt

Whoever cooks dinner makes,

Tuesday is the day

All great discoveries are made.