I’ve cooked it for years
In its special iron pan
Roasted and simmered it, added spice from malicious adventures,
Seasoned it with more distaste than you can imagine.
I have gathered neither flowers nor poems
But hate, the multiple weaknesses of fools
And the frailties of friends,
Hooking these failures on the rough warp and weft of my exterior
Scraping off enough from time to time to add to this dish
That I relish, that brings blood to my tongue and fever to my chest
That lies in ambush for the next human to come tripping its weak-kneed way to the door
Where I pounce, strip the victim,
And add his peculiar vices to my frying pan.
It heats my house but feeds upon me as I sleep.