You didn't throw it away? he asks
voice rising to the outrage level.

I have sinned again—dumped the murky juices
from the cooking pan down the sink.
I should know by now
each flavorful leftover
has its use in his infinite cooking plans.

I should know from the lineup
of small containers that crowd our frig
labeled brown sauce from ribs, or
chix broth, or vinaigrette from Monday salad,
carefully dated. As beneficiary
of his culinary creativity
I know I will swoon over the next
mamou, or cassoulet, fatten myself
on jambalaya. Friends who ask
for recipes are doomed to disappointment.

Now I am called to judgment
Yes, I did. I cannot tell a lie.
My penalty: One lemon meringue pie,
Six hugs. I get off easy

They cluster in corners and closets
gnawing holes in the warm woolen bliss of sleep,
preen on window ledge, mock me
with Hallmark verse and jaded jingles.
I stumble through woods
seeking a fresh one—nothing phony,
or worn thin from overuse.
I discard clichés that drop in my pockets
like hickory nuts. No—the moon is not
a ripe melon; tree arms don't reach to embrace me.
And the stars are not God's candles.

I have sniffed out a likely one
and reach to snatch it, make an impossible leap
over stumps and bramble—but it slips
buttery-soft through my fingers
and takes off chuckling, soon
to be harvested by a likelier poet
leaving me at the end of the day
hanging out to dry
          a rudderless ship
                    an empty shell
                              a blank page.