I do not play well with others,
refusing to share my precious toys,
the sizzle of bacon – mine,
the taste of tangerine wine – mine,
Now how smooth is that, I say,
wrapping my hands around her,
placing the apron gently over
her head as she chops onions;
these moments, these days, this
heat soaring kitchen, I do not share,
the old left in the store, clutching
the blister package of a new gizmo.