Missed
She has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss the vichyssoise of this potpourri season.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
are so easy to miss.
My friend will soon return with a carton of broth,
plus, a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of a fresh plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock,
the ‘mise en place’.
Today I will cook only with missing ingredients.
Everything is in order,
all is a hunger surrounded
by the soft anticipation of open lips.
I do miss the mélange and medley,
the consommé of fat times.
I will miss cracking chicken bones,
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend returns from the store.
She miles at the look
of childish relief on my face.
If I am left alone too long, I tend to make lists,
I become a Saran wrapped emptiness -
I disappear for a while.
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