Rod White

My pot boils.
I don’t attend it until the liquid is gone
and a dark, dead scum is left
to scrape off and wash away.
Whole kettles have been lost.

Sometimes a simmer
bubbles all day, attended and fragrant,
and a deadly anger turns to action,
into something to be savored
like a done just enough stew.

If one is evil, vengeance is food,
the feast of the grave
waiting by the door, unmastered.
If one is good, th