A Singleton's Meal

I pour the smashed carcass of a tomato in the pan,

And go to war hacking peas, corn and garlic in a heaving, unelegant mess

No one checks me for propriety or symmetry, 

For taste of meat or thickness of sauce.

I present this masterpiece to no one but myself,

And eat to the sound of my own chewing.

One plate, one glass, one fork I wash.

Not for me the pageantry of a well-served meal.

I banish what’s left to the icy, unfriendly depths of the refrigerator

Where the meal congeals till I find it again, 

less grand and barely tasteful,

but just enough for one more serving.

The night's shadows have almost taken me,

when I sit up in alarm and wonder,

my heart drumming like the empty steel pots in my kitchen,

“Will the carcass leave seeds of longing behind?”