my oven has died

as my buoyant soul has no need for it

pulled to the middle of the kitchen floor

an asphyxia case in need of cpr

gasping

of a burned out ignitor

mr. repairman

is an hourn’half delinquent

of his 9 to noon service window

he made me miss my lunch date

i stand hand on hip

in a dress

from a November 1954 edition

of vogue magazine

my whimsy contained

by a tea length line of buttons

concealing

a cat on a hot tin roof southern slip

because i hold a firm belief

the maytag man should be met

with a combination of elizabeth taylor

and donna reed

sylvias’s ghost stands behind me

eyebrow raised commenting

“good thing you had no plans to make one of my dishes tonight”

i call her a tramp

we laugh like conspiring sisters