My relationship with the appliances in
my kitchen is strictly professional:
each one is like an ATM,
with big user-friendly knobs and buttons
whirling, clunking noises and digital clocks
Their sleek, curving frames are built
out of stainless steel and black plastic
They boast the sensibilities of a bank

My fridge is a faceless behemoth
who won’t extend the courtesy of opening
a window to let me see what’s inside it
(unlike my exhibitionist microwave, who
deliberately spins every icy tater tot slowly
as thought it were a diamond in a jewelry infomercial)
Calculating coldly it even turns off
the light inside when I’m not looking

My oven has never brooked nonsense.
It even cleans itself, and won’t let me forget it
by the sharp smell of incinerated cheese
Every stray handle hanging precariously
on the stovetop invites at the slightest touch
my well-balanced stir fry or sexy red spaghetti sauce
to dance an attractive tango with gravity
Zero trans-fat olive-oil is a third-degree-accident-waiting-to-happen
My oven has deadly flatulence, and also possession issues:
Anyone so inconsiderate as to forget the oven’s efforts
will find his dinner reduced to ashes, the fixture fuming,
the smoke alarm screaming indignantly

My voluptuous and curvy coffee pot
is ever-perky, percolating precisely
at the appointed early morning hour.
(Unless the power went out, in which case
there is scalding French roast to complement
the Chinese takeout for dinner)
Like a bubbly customer service representative
it is always full of energy when I have none
It does the rather heavy lifting of rousting me from bed,
the roasted bean aroma wafting warmly through the dark house,
the predawn silence punctured by the frantic auto-grinding.
My coffee pot grinds that I might grind through another day,
prompt and enthusiastic like I’d better be for work.