Eight-fifteen on a weekend. The door hangs open.
The tour begins. What do I have, what can I make—
with the available and the hunger of the steak,
this is the question a man
who hasn’t eaten since the pizza at midnight asks
of the appliance humming its cold liturgy.
The brisket waits, leftover from the midweek fire.
Eggs fill the carton to their twelve-point hunt.
The good cheddar, the half-red onion,
the roasted potatoes cold in their dish—
the cheese drawer holds three varieties:
the aged gouda on the shelf, the cheddar block,
the town’s entire dairy waiting to be spent.
The condiments stand in the door slots down
like soldiers, like promises.
Now the cast iron heats. The diced onion hits first—
that’s the vow, the foundation. Potatoes next,
then the brisket, then eggs cracked to finish,
their liquid gold crowning the hash I’m building
from the light the open refrigerator door lets in,
the morning cool surrounding me as I cook.
I eat at the table, the full skillet,
the hot sauce from the collection and the coffee
going strong from the French press.
The refrigerator’s pull toward something excellent
has once again delivered—
the weekend morning feed I’d considered
since the moment I woke, the inventory led
the way to the best breakfast of the week instead.
By noon I’ve assessed the state again,
the dinner possibilities running through my brain.
The gouda in the drawer speaks grilled cheese.
The eggs suggest frittata, dinner’s pride.
The remaining brisket insists on tacos
if I make the tortilla run.
I make the run.
By sunset the inventory’s been spent,
converted into the best weekend I’ve seen.