Frying Pan

Frying Pan

The story of an iron frying pan
that once was owned by a left-handed man.
It every day walked on the garden path
through his backyard, a neighbor’s large, black cat.
His kitchen window, out of it he’d gaze,
to see the cat in its habit’ual ways.
He’d watch him while, his iron pan, he scraped,
to clean it, he with water, would deglaze,
this cooking method that his friend, him, taught.
The sediment of meat, to make a sauce,
sometimes with wine. The after-frying pan,
he’d grasp its handle firm in his right hand
and in his left was a steel spatula,
the pan as black as a tarantula,
a dishtowel that he wrapped, the handle, ‘round,
the sizzle, smoke, it made a sudden sound
that got the cat’s attention right away.
It was the way the pan, he had to scrape,
as hot as it could get o’er gas-lit flame,
at it, but he, because of its square shape,
it wasn’t round, the way that it was made.
The downwards force of ev’ry spatula scratch,
the angle, grinding slightly down, the pan,
an implement, from solid iron, cast.
If ever you have that deficiency,
an iron frying pan, your remedy!
When underneath a magnifying lens,
look to the corners of his frying pan,
the grooves worn by the scraping spatula scratch,
how they were made could only come from that,
a man who grasped the handle in his right,
and his left-handed spatula would grind.
The bottom of the pan, where you should look,
how he would clean it, also how he cooked,
he poured in water and the scraping edge,
that spatula ‘tween pan and meat, a wedge.
The boiling water and the spat’ula scrape,
combined together with what was deglazed,
dark, steaming, meaty soup aimed for the drain,
he’s careful to the countertop avoid,
a careless mess, the man it would annoy.
As he looked up to move back to the stove,
the backyard where his eyes just briefly roved,
a figure, dark, upon the ground was crouched,
against the background, green and gray, pronounced.
The neighbor’s cat was staring straight at him,
ferocity, undoubtedly, it’s with.