You identify them by
their burnt fingertips.
Blurred prints,
burglarizing the need for common Teflon.

You can see them on their
streetcorners
And Instagram soapboxes,
pontificating against white backgrounds.
Rules of thirds be damned –
it’s all about portion size.

“Tradition,” they howl at the moon
dancing shirtless around the campfire.
“Bacon and eggs in style!”
“Cook them over the coals” they chant.
“Season well, season well…”

(Frothing at the lips now)
“Summer squash, lightly charred
fried brussel sprouts, piping hot
egg white tendrils, ringed in post-chicken glory.”

Don’t be fooled by
the colorful pictures.
It’s a siren’s call to a sinking ship.
Odysseus dashed against the rocks,
Unmoored, unmasted, unmade.

“Season well, season well…”
I whisper to myself frantically
Scoring salt crystal across
A metal that only just beats out stone
in the timeline of the world,
(don’t touch the dish soap).

“Season well, season well”
Smoking Crisco, and an intermittent
Beeping.
(Fire alarms in the kitchen
what a necessary evil.)
“Season well, season well”
sweat in the eyes, ice on the palms,
so much scrubbing.

And still they dance
circles in the moonlight,
a weightiness to their being
and earthiness to their desire,
a resonance to their voices.

“Season well, season well.”

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