She dances through the kitchen door,
grins twice as she recites
tonight’s menu: paté on lavash,
leg of lamb, Amarone.
Her nose says all is not right
out there in the speeded-up world,
but close to her stove the smell
is slow, Mediterranean.
Friends go on with petty fights
but she alights on a stool,
stirs three sauces on this day
her daily bread, leavened or not
here she comes, tongue on fire
with flavor, her body floating on air.
Like My Friend