Your simmering ways.
How you bubble and stew while the
world spins, unaware of
what you conjure inwardly.
You wear the apron
when I am sick and sniffling,
keeping my husband from
having to cook
two days in a row.
You lure the dogs into thinking
that it's for them, and we laugh,
knowing that it's not.
It's for us.
You clean up so nice and bright, so
I don't even have to use the dreaded
I'd love you even if you hadn't come with
a little red mini Dipper -
but you did. Don't worry, I won't
You're the best twenty-eight dollars
I've ever spent at Wal-Mart. How
could a kitchen ever live without you?
You're the chef, we just turn your dial.
You fed us yesterday and then again today,
when I had roast leftovers for lunch.
You silly Crockpot. You just can't give
enough - and we'll never forget it, or that
weird time you batted your eyes at us
and we had to remind you that we're just friends.
You came into our kitchen with your settings of
high, low, and "warm," and we knew our days
be the same.
May you and I never part.
Love is not love which alters when it
crockpot roast doth find, nor bends with the
remover to remove (the roast): oh no, it is
an ever-fixed mark on high, because I never
put the roast in early enough to warrant switching you
p.s. yes, I'm still sick and highly medicated. What's your point?