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.