The price of being alone.
The littlest saucepan is getting
a work over. I cook with it,
wash it, and use it for
the next meal. Then the one
after. I’ll burn its handles down
to an image of you. My surgeon
practises with the spaghetti scoop,
sauce like laughter from his smile.
He turns a few pages of skin
and the cauliflower curls up in disgust.