The General Idea

More or less all the ingredients
roughly within their use-by dates, but
how some arrived, and when; that’s forgotten.

Cupboard corners give them up, each click
marking how years had stuck them to the shelf
and left a map of telltale circles.

Weighing them’s a guessing game, a pinch
of this, a seasoning of that, talked back
to pounds and ounces. It’s all one.

Perhaps the oven no longer tells the truth,
knowing a half-truth’s good enough, while time
slides through our hands until the edges crisp.

Something comes out.  And when did you ever
follow the recipe exactly?

D. A. Prince

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  D. A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them.