That My Kitchen is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Extinguisher

J.B. Toner
(with apologies to G.M.H.)

Stove-knobs, strange numbers, goblin-glinting dials,
Flame-plates atop, caged conflagration hides,
Broil, bake, baste, burn, bent digit-discs deride—
O how to cook Spaghetti-O’s at whiles?
Filth-floor no-man-mopped, wretched refuse piles:
No trash-can-space for pizza boxes I'd
Consumed last night: alas, they're now inside
The stove whose every knob I've blindly twiled.
Enough! Extinguisher, thou scythe of might,
Gush gas at gaping jaws of jagged flame.
Away, Sith smoke tsunami, leering light,
Piss off, thou smoke alarm of blaring blame:
Th’apartment shall not be destroyed tonight,
Nor my Spaghetti-O’s be lost in shame!

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