It is not like roasting a turkey; more
like making an omelet, ten minutes tops
with five more to cool on the red plate
while you make toast and spread on the butter.
The long work was already done, by the hen,
the grazing goat, the patient cheesemaker,
the iron miner, the smelter, the caster of skillets.
Alone in the kitchen, never forget
how quick it can be, how swift it must be,
because here is the point: there is hunger.
What you make is requisite for love.
To drop the metaphor, we need the poems,
new ones every day, physical and fresh,
edible, nourishing, embracing, complete.
See how the cats dance
hopping like birds when you pick up a can.
They are counting on you, opening cans
is something only you can do, poet,
so do it well, do it quickly. Now. Now.