Self-Served

Another empty fridge. Just a sad, green head of kale.

And then the bill arrived, a story grim and pale.

No more takeout. No delivery. This was it, the end

of easy meals. A bag of potatoes. My new best friend.

A cookbook open, pages dog-eared, sauce-splashed, burnt.

I chopped an onion, cried, a lesson quickly learned.

Garlic browning, then it's burning, a sudden awful smell.

My roasted vegetables, a crust so dark, it rang a bell

of failure. Splattered counter, flour on the floor.

It's messy, yes. It's ugly. But it's mine, this slow defeat

of hunger. Every burnt-edge bite, I find it bittersweet.

No one's coming with a tray. No one will make it right.

Just me, and this hot stove, under the kitchen light.