My Best Friend Poetry is An Awful Cook

Several of my early poems are to appear in Strong Verse! Updates on that in the future. Best of thanks to them! I shall link as well.

--

My best friend Poetry knows how to turn the dials,

to invigorate the electric oven, 

but when I tried 

to teach him the art of boiled water

he burned his hands and cowered 

against the counter, clutching 

his raw, twitching digits.

To be honest, Poetry

is the sort of person who prefers watching others

cook ribs on a sooty grill, 

because the process takes five hours

and he can drink the whole time.

I remember one night, when trying to cook 

shrimp scampi for two: Poetry

told me he would decrust the crustaceans

while I used the bathroom.

When I returned I found the poor prawns

mashed into an incomprehensible pile.

Poetry cackled, clapped his hands,

and spread shellfish around like the cold.

At the sight of me he fled, leaving the door open

so it would catch the wind outside, slam shut.

I spent twenty minutes 

alone at the dinner table,

balancing the fork on my index finger

and using the steak knife to carve my initials,

but it was useless: I went to bed hungry that night.