Underdone

I let the onions catch and burn

on the bottom of the pot,

trying to find a flavor that I know

I haven’t got.

The potato is a stone, the kitchen is cold,

and the stock has that film

that is yellow and old.

She’d stand by the steam with her hair in a mess

making something from nothing, I have to confess.

But I take a bite and the middle is hard,

just a cold piece of root in a house on its guard.