The setting light spills
onto the white of my stove. With the thought
of a cooking metaphor in mind, I go crazy.
Frantically my arms jerk up, as if on strings,
and I throw more spices, more seasonings,
into the pot of us. My irrational puppet body
keeps trying to save the soup.

But I choke up a laugh, looking at me,
who did not know that the stock
was spoiled. And then again,
I can see back, to me analyzing and critizing.
But now, biting into the wooden spoon
of the present, cleanching down
I turn away, and attend to tonight's meal.