The Blue Cooker
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In the kitchenan old man is cooking on an old blue cooker.
The cooker is in love with all things Spanish.
It wants to feats its taste buds on a gallician extravaganza.
It wants to wear ricotta next to its skin. Real ricotta.
It wants to burn with the flames of flamenco.
It craves passion.
It never wants to see a ready meal for one again.
Not to mention sardines.
My name is conchita-panchetta-paella
rioja-pepperonata-Gonzalez, it croons.
It makes little whinnying noises
like those Spanish academy horses.
It is imagining kicking off its dull saggy casters –
popping on a pair of soft, black leather
clicking shoes, that click and click and click
against the hard kitchen floor.
It would die to have its own fan.
It imagines the coquettish turn of its head
behind such a fan.
It begins to rock softly on its moorings.
Just the thought of it.
The old man looks puzzled.
Checks the bit of newspaper under the wonky leg.
Goes to turn the gas off, and then
IT happens.
He doesn’t know why, but he begins to sing.
Imagines he is a wild gypsy soloist.
Serenades the sad blue eyes of the cooker.
His voice soars high above the kitchen
out into the dizzying spell of the night sky.
The cooker is as wild as he.
Its castanets are on fire.
Its mock-replica-all-purpose-hood-with-dual-attachments-
has become detached.
This is IT – it cries – this is where my life really begins-
this is freedom-this is beauty-this is SPAIN. !!!!
And the old man and the cooker
embrace and are happy.
Together they dance.