Short poems about cooking for one, cooking for two, and the smoke alarm that has opinions about both.
I. Tuesday
The onions and I
have an understanding:
they make me cry,
I make them sweet.
Nobody wins.
Everybody eats.
II. The Smoke Alarm
It screams at toast.
It screams at bacon.
It sat in perfect silence
the night the kettle boiled dry
and I sat at the table
reading your letter
for the third time.
It knows what's dangerous.
It just disagrees with me.
III. For Two
I still buy the big carton of eggs.
I still make the full pot.
Habit is a kind of hope
that hasn't heard the news yet.
On Sundays I invite the neighbor.
She brings bread. We don't talk about it.
The kitchen is warm. That's enough.
That's almost enough.
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