Softening

The bins are full of plastic trays,

the ghosts of all my lazy days.

I stood before the burner’s glow,

and watched the bubbles start to grow.

A bag of lentils, salt, and steam,

is not exactly what I’d dream.

I poked a noodle with a fork,

it felt like biting into cork.

The wooden spoon is stained a gold,

from turmeric that’s getting old.

It’s quiet here, the air is thick,

I’m waiting for the pot to click.