It's Still Life

At 10 Minutes Past Twelve

…he says he’s burnt the soup.
How do you burn a liquid, I ask,
and he says he just turned his back on it for a second,

and it was toast.

How does soup become toast, I ask,
and he says marrying a poet is a bloody curse.

Toast it is, I tell him.

Process notes: I admit it must be hellish being married to me. ©Misky 2023.