The fridge hums a flat steady Bflat

The fridge hums a flat, steady B-flat.

I stand over the porcelain sink

and pull the chicken apart with my hands.

The steam is gone.

I didn't want the theater of the table,

the empty chair staring back like a debt.

It’s easier this way, cold and quick,

leaning into the fluorescent light.

The grease has turned to a cloudy yellow,

thickening in the plastic ridges of the lid.

I wipe my palms on a paper towel

and wait for the house to get quiet again.