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NEW YORK-STYLE HUNGARIAN STEW

In the darkest corner of her living room, 
she waits to eat. A stone’s throw away, 
her ex lives with their kids, his goulash 
wafting reek into her open windows. 

Through the one in her master bedroom, 
the man could easily catch sight of his successor 
swaddled in goose-down, identical in color 
to the old comforter she could see, if she cared to, 

just beyond her window, on the bed where 
she’d been fed, “I’ll cherish you always.” 
Abutting that room, the den with surround-
sound TV, where the vulgarian had charmed 

the panties off her during commercials, turning 
up his volume so she could grasp every syllable 
of his accented endearments, his excuses. 
Adjacent, their son and daughter’s rooms 

(now, with suitcases the children bring back 
and forth each weekend); and down the hall, 
the state-of-the art kitchen where her louse ex 
still plays chef. How she’d wished he’d played 

spouse with as much know-how and gusto. Oh, 
how he’d cooked and cooked their goose, served it 
up every chance he got, till she got good and fed 
up and fled to an old flame in a brownstone 

across the way — where, at this very moment, she sits 
with the stench of the dish her ex is, no doubt, cooking 
to death, and the essence of her Crock-pot stew 
cooking up a storm, inextricably mesh.

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