My kitchenette’s become a stage,
a space in which I can engage
my skill with ceps and chicory
while honouring Terpsichore.
I don a tutu and discard
my apron, to prepare roulade
and other gastronomic fare
while entrechatting, pieds en l’air.
While rustling up a crepe suzette
I execute a pirouette
and dance pas seul, yet meals for one
don’t quell my craving; when I’m done
I cry into my sauce chasseur
while yearning for a pas de deux.
A plat du jour for two’d enhance
the kitchen where I always dance.
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