Grill

 

I am cooking on the half-broken grill– knobs

stuck, burner busted– you left when you moved

 

out. This rack of ribs burning on foil– that's you.

You and I are through. Perhaps not; I'm famous

 

(in my mind) for my inability to settle a squabble,

however small, how I raise the temperature until

 

the whole meal's scorched in this final summer

on the lease. The charcoal smoke remains nostalgic

 

in the atmosphere but this pig is dead, has been

and the house hasn’t felt the same for months,

 

weeds crawling around the wooden baseboard,

the dishwasher sobbing in the clutter of its mess.

 

I am throwing everything I own into black bags

to be disposed of Thursday, on the precipice

 

of a move, how much grease I’ve scraped from this

squealing machine, all this hunger turned to waste.