Like a piece of ice on a hot stove
the poem must ride on its own melting.
—Robert Frost
I thought about the simple beauty of this
while I was watching a dollop of butter
glide across the surface of a heated pan,
a more customary sight at the stove,
then tossed in some chopped onions
and when they became translucent,
a bowlful of shrimp, peeled and chilled.
And after the cooking was done,
I pictured Frost sitting down
to his dinner of a heated ice cube—
more like a thimbleful of warm water by now—
while I tied a napkin around my neck
in the manner of a famished coyote,
knife and fork upright in my hands,
then dug into a plate of Louisiana shrimp
resting on a bed of parsley-sprinkled rice,
and raised to the master craftsman
a frosty glass of Chenin Blanc,
carried all the way from France
to accompany another game
happily and carelessly played without a net.