Provisions

The blue flame licks the bottom of the steel

while I wait for the butter to go brown.

There’s no one left to craft a Sunday meal

or bring a heavy plate from uptown.

I crack the eggs and watch the whites turn opaque,

a lonely sound against the quiet wall.

It’s a functional sort of habit to make,

standing here while the evening shadows crawl.

The yolk is runny and the toast is hard,

a dinner made of what was left in sight.

I’m the only sentry left to keep the guard

against the hunger and the coming night.