“Hi, Mom”

I pop a cold beer,
start chicken thighs to browning,
and call you to talk.
Sharing an appetizer
five hundred miles away,
I hear you pour your beer
in a glass of green crystal.

I swig mine from the bottle,
green, like yours,
chilled from the refrigerator.
Preparing dinner,
your knife thunks through the carrot,
over the phone,
into the cutting board.

As if no extra effort
you’d slice raw carrot sticks for me,
served like orange flowers in a juice glass.
In a workaday world
I know preference matters,
receiving firsthand
your attention to detail.

I drink my beer from the bottle
but offer a glass to my guest.

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