In the morning, the bed spits you out,
at breakfast, the kettle bristles at you,
the dough refuses to rise to the occasion,
yeasts play dead, the sun hides.
I am a kettle pleaser, bed pleaser,
so on, so forth …
I make the bed or make up with perhaps,
polish the kettle until it gleams at me,
I tango with the dough,
slow-slow-quick-quick-slow.
I feed the starter, watch babies bud, blossom,
Is there another way to look at this?
How does one coax out
the independent sun;
If not for Coulomb’s wise counsel,
what fascination holds a deathly damp?