The Blind Oven, Or, Guessing at Degrees

This old stove, it tries my patience thin,

a small, worn battle, where I can't quite win.

The oven dial, a greasy, smooth old friend,

where numbers used to be, right to the end.

But they're all gone, rubbed off by years of heat,

just a blank metal band, a cruel defeat.

I turn the knob, it clicks, a vague release,

but what's a 'low,' or 'bake,' or 'roast,' or 'grease'

for frying? Just a guess, a silent prayer.

A small, blank smudge, reflects my anxious stare.

I aim for '350,' a phantom mark,

and hope the cake won't end up burned and dark.

It’s just a stove, I know, a stupid thing,

but sometimes small defeats, they really sting.

To lack the map, the guidance, clear and true,

and just to guess, at what I have to do.

This blind old dial, it holds its secrets fast,

and every meal, a gamble, built to last.