Back from Korea,
I realize to my horror
when I wake up,
dizzy from jet-lag,
that I have to cook for myself.
Breakfast
and lunch
and dinner.
All dang-nabbit three.
Travel spoils me.
There’s no such thing
as thinking up your own meals
let alone cooking them,
unless you’re camping
or caravanning,
or staying in one of those condo-like
places with a kitchen you can use
to make you feel – really? – “at home”?
Hey, if I wanted to cook for myself,
I would have stayed
at home.
No.
Vacations are for not thinking
about cooking,
or cleaning,
or yard-working,
or doing whatever
you had to do when you were
not vacationing.
And so we find ourselves, my stove and I,
having sunk into that stage of a relationship
where we’ve nearly forgotten each other,
have taken each other for granted,
but now recall the warmth between us,
one degree at a time, as memories
of our domestic relationship rekindle
amid sweat, and tears, and silent curses,
an egg cracked like a smile resigned.
Lanning Lee 