What was it, that chocolate crust
scorched in the pot from yesternight,
leaning, off-burner, with the dangling
spoon, wooden and stained?
Best give it a soak, my love,
that tomorrow we may find
its nature framed tight in stainless,
framed tight in the soap bubbles
that have raced and cling
to the round squat walls.
Perhaps we may find, tomorrow,
among the gray pepper-flecked film,
risen to the surface, a few plump kernels
of our own yellow yesterday.