A stove-checker from way back,
like my mother before me.
Yet we have our own accord,
the stove and I. On most days,
we part with a familiar
ease, and not without humor!
The burner knobs seem to wink
their goodbyes, hurrying me
along – Looking SMART, Geri!
I confess there are bad days,
those mornings when I am seized
by doubt and rush back, panting,
late already, but needing
to check one more time, those knobs,
as I do today. A week
of wrong trains and strange bridges.
(I’m on the M! Not the F!)
A dubious decision
involving a man. The wrong
man . . . The stove also strange now,
its burner knobs black, sullen,
inscrutable. I stand here,
rooted in my place, watching
it dare me to turn my back.
