In the pan
browning on all sides of
my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.
edge living
is hot!
at times I try to jump from the flame,
my own juice
basting over my head
a humiliating baptism to the one
who has forgotten
the agreement of what’s for dinner.
the hairs on my arms seek like radars
trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,
I signed a waiver.
veins pulse while
the heart is in its throws–
with or without me along.
I’m cooked so long
falling off the bone
tender
tender
who sees the anxious fingers
slip into the pan
to satisfy the longing
for a preview bite
of this upcoming feast?
Life as Improv 