John Dorroh

Those Pesky Stove Top Burners

There is always something that I don’t see
left upon a stove top burner. Carbon
is in everything, and it stinks when it gets hot.
I’m a connoisseur of sorts of carboniferous skid
marks on hot surfaces. That one’s burned soup,
probably chicken noodle, probably not Campbell’s.
That one’s canola oil from the fried catfish. Or maybe
the hush puppies. I can’t tell. It would be too easy
for cooks around my house to wipe the eye after
each use. One quick wipe with the sponge, just
like when the Lord smote the shepherd, and all
is clean. No more burns, no more need for
attempted resurrections of disassembled food
molecules. Just like that. I think that one’s
dried juice from a can of English peas.
Probably not Green Giant. Probably generic.

John Dorroh has never fallen into an active volcano, nor has he ever caught a hummingbird. However, he has baked bread with monks in Salzburg, Austria, and drunk their beer. His first poem was written in red lipstick on the bathroom wall. Hopefully, his poetry has evolved a bit. Two of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Others have appeared in Feral, Tilde, Burningword, and many more