poem

Spice Rack

I will make eggs in the morning, not too

early. Coffee in the cold of the back

room, windows on the feeders, half empty,

epicenter of an explosion of

small birds on film run forward and backward,

a mad scramble of egg-layers. Iron

skillet, butter, crack and whisk, yes to toast.

Salt, pepper in shakers, simple gifts, hymns

to a humble meal. Yet, the spice rack brims

with dormant fiery powders waiting

for a chance to ignite underneath our

mothballed rocket of a morning. Crushed red

pepper, curry, cayenne, chilis bristle.

Alas, cumin, just a pinch, my hand, stayed,

a cook wise to incendiary meals.