I Feel A Poem Coming On

The Politics of Small Failure

--after Roy Bentley

We prepare good food to cook
We measure, mix, knead.
You and I work
To massage, coax, and cajole the flavor.

We make progress:
The many parts combine to something greater.
Through our small exhalations
We convince the cook-fire to rise.

We set the food to heat
And celebrate a bit.
We congratulate each other
On a job well begun and slug a beer.

We dish out tall tales
Of wonders created
In kitchens of glories past.
We laugh, reminisce, and dry our eyes on tea towels

Then we smell something,
A subtle acridity
Like the faint odor of
The rice beginning to burn.

My center of gravity drops with disappointment
As we salvage what remains
Of the rice that is not
Tainted with the taste of char

We serve the meal and smile ruefully,
Noting the flavor of our tiny failure
To not honor our inner clock
And check on the rice sooner.

But we carry on, convinced
That our good intentions to feed this army
Will carry us through
And that everyone will forget the error of our rice

But they won't.
They savor that smoke-damaged taste
And save the ruined pan
To hit us on the head with later.