Perpetual Stew

If it fails to excite you, why does it feel like something more?

Soup making is an art, you know,
tucked away on an old recipe card.

Some recipes you just know,
something unmeasured,
though deeply understood.

And still, I read the recipe,
for any missing instructions,
ingredients I may have ignored.

A watched pot never boils,
what to do, what to do?
In the spare time, without you.

Come back on the hour,
half an hour, in the after hours.

I keep control of my gaze,
or else I bite my tongue.

A glance that lingers,
longer than it should…

I’m just a carrot,
softening in your stew.

Is the stew watching me,
or am I watching the stew?

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