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
.