Our microwave is gone. We'd borrowed it
Until the spring. Now I'll have to boil tortellini
If I want to heat it; now the oatmeal
Bubbles and foams in the black pot, froths
Into a rich and curdy cream. Meanwhile
Expenses mount: who will pay for the reddened
Surface of the stove, whose glare makes oil
Boil, sausage smells that steam and curl
Into the sucking vent? Do I pay less for the flying electrons
That curve about the surface of the iron circle, slide
With seasoned skill and the necessity of metal rills?
Do fans that whir with a current to incur our porcelain
Move by means of ether, just the sparest dance
And not the race-car's all-consuming burn? In the event I know
We did not own the metal box, that here we live
With rent that splits the fabric of our lives
In tatters of material; we count and pay
Our due – just the moving enchantment remains.
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