PAVLOV’S DOG

Like a pistol, loaded

with plenty of rounds to plug

in the body, I’m cocked

and ready against your hip.

Your hand is my holster.

When you finger

and squeeze the trigger,

the metaphor explodes.

I enter your basement

through the back

staircase where the drain

is clogged

and rainwater warps

the floorboards.

You clean your cup

in the kitchen sink

while two stove burners glow

a desperate red.

I hunger, waiting

to come until you ring

your dinner bell.

Open your mouth.

My saliva is yours.

THE KITCHEN

They came unannounced, uninvited through the back door.

It wasn’t locked.

There was never need to lock it.

They said I looked sickly, gaunt, malnourished.

They showed no identification

but said they had just the thing

as they took over my kitchen.

My cabinets were pilfered.

One hand placed a bag of salt on the counter

while the other hand slipped a bag into a pocket.

But they said they knew what was best for me.

I was pushed out.

Told to watch tv.

You should have heard the banging.

They would call me in, occasionally, and ask

if I preferred white or balsamic vinegar,

how much was too much pepper

and if I had issues with wine as marinade.

They said it was my meal, after all.

This was the extent of my consultation.

They said they would leave but would not say when.

I asked my neighbor for help, for advice.

He supplied me with a chickpea recipe

and told me not to return without hummus.

When the meal was complete, I was last to eat, last in the buffet line.

I was told the food was excellent: the tuna mercury free,

the chicken free range, the beef not mad at all.

But by the time it was my turn,

there were only three fried chicken beaks left

and my kitchen was empty.

I was left alone with scald marks on the bottoms of my pans.

Loogies of dried fat in the creases of tile.

All my blades dull as stones.

The oven refused to self-clean.

The sink clogged with a fist of hair.

The plates and glasses had to be thrown out. A waste.

The stink of fish impossible to escape.

They didn’t even clean out the splattered inside of the microwave.

And they left me the unpaid bill.

Brad Johnson is an associate professor at Palm Beach Community College, FL, and has two chapbooks, “Void Where Prohibited” and “The Happiness Theory,” available at puddinghouse.com.

POETRY