There is a ghost in the kitchen;
it’s banging all the pots
and turning the oven on at
2 in the morning.

I laid out a blanket
of bread and butter
as a piece offering—
the next day,
it was all gone.

I find omelets on
sizzling pans in the mornings
and tossed salads
when I come back from work.

Tubs of ice cream remain cold
when I leave them out in the open
and I can hear the dishes
washing themselves.

I’m leaving open a can of
alphabet soup.

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