Dave Cook

Christmas, 2005 / No. 15

I am Dave. Dave Cook.

Perhaps you know me.

I am not famous,

Dave Cooks aren’t.

Not to my knowledge.

We carve the roast.

We lift our end.

Help out with the heavy stuff.

Oh sure, we fall in love.

Not every day. Not all romantic.

But practically. We make love sensibly.

On Saturdays we cut the grass.

Change the oil. Replace the filter.

Once in a while we go out for dinner.

We order the surf ’n’ turf.

Drink the house red.

We don’t often say no

at home or at work. We come in at nine.

Some of us carry a lunch box

and Thermos. Some of us carry sandwiches

in Tupperware boxes with seal-fast tops.

We buy drinks from the vending machine.

If we’ll be working late,

we phone home in advance with a warning.

Our wives are called Shondra, Maria, or Rose.

Our wives are Dinitra, or Shannon, or Marg.

For them (among others), we are never too tired

to look behind the fridge.

To replace a fuse. To trigger the mousetrap.

Never too tired to fight the raccoons over garbage,

or drive to the pharmacy

to help fight the common cold.

Our thick fingers can be taught

to diaper baby daughters.

Our hands can be taught to hold

and to quell baby daughters.

Each day, for the greater good, we leave.

When we return from our jobs,

we greet our homes, calling out,

“How’re my favourite girls? ”

Years later, our babies

will confound us with questions and behaviour.

We’ll do our best not to say,

“Ask your mother.”

At night we’ll drink a beer. We will watch the game

when the television’s available.

We are beauty.

We are Dave. Dave Cook.