Inside a kitchen drawer inside an owner's manual
inside the third section inside a word you find
the meaning of power, as common sense surrenders
to the agency of technical jargon: press on
to bring life to this otherwise lifeless machine.
I have no use, really, for anything other than
a sharp blade and deep pot, but I have mixers
for the mixing, blenders for the blending, fryers
for what I wish to submerge in hot oil. Language
befriends the person who knows what he wishes
to do. If I possess cabbage and no notion of recipe,
the stock pot stops meaning a goddamn thing.
I've got zesters for the cocktails and Zest soap
for the shower and I use both of these for the waking
of my otherwise sleepy soul. To be without
zest is to be without gusto, without enjoyment,
without vigor, without what on the better days
my mother called life. O, the madness of a kitchen
counter. That which holds each appliance on its cold surface
like a digit. We have one, and we have two, and we
have three beyond which the numbers begin
to lose their meaning, as they stretch themselves
into a fabulous array of vowels and consonants,
holding ground against the next new gadget,
which as they say on television will revolutionize
the industry, as well as change our lives forever.