Ode to a stove

The four

Coiled faces,

Have always smiled

Four warm smiles.

It’s porcelain exterior shines well in the latitude of the kitchen light.

(More so when frequently buffed)

Providing synthetic warmth,

To the legs

Of the cockroaches

That

                                             Scurry

                                                                                  Across

Without sound,

On hungry,

Lonely nights.

After every meal,

The knobs,

The bells & whistles,

Are wound to to the “off” position.

Leaving so many

Degrees of varying

Degrees

To the imagination.

The buzzing belly,

Slowly powering down now,

For good this time.

Across the un-swept sea,

On another counter-top,

Light-years away,

A far-away microwave

Waves farewell to it’s ancient ancestor,

This prehistoric,

Preheated cave,

 That has seen so many

Majestic birds

And beasts

Deliciously baked

(Or Broiled)

 Right into the hungry

Salivating mouth of extinction.

Upon professional excavation,

Of the oven,

By hands dressed in

Decorative mitts,

Uncover ancient drawings,

Sprawled across it”s walls,

By the geysers of

Cascading casseroles,

Of Thanksgivings past.

So many

“Just desserts”

And

“Last suppers”

Now in it’s enamel rear-view.

It’s whole life,

Seared in steam,

Eroded into the spongy cabinets

That hang

Like

Cheap

Stalactites,

Above the four,

Laughing faces.

The four burning faces.

Whose destiny it was to only and

Ever,

Glow bright orange,

Like four Burning planets,

And then fade to black,

Will leave more stories,

Than charred crumbs,

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