Cooking My Dinner
By Denver E. Torres

Fuck!
Shit!
Why did you have to do that?!
Go to hell!

What the fuck?

Damn it!
I stepped back a little.

These parading anathemas
I shouted, scolding the
Escaping cooking oil globules from the heated pan.
The escapees were like envenomed spits from the sting bees
When they landed on my skin: electrocuted
My poor pores and done millions of continuous mini-pinches
To my skin. Some of my skin became swollen and red
Like the tocino I am frying.

The rebel oils seemed to have
Made fun of me, done foolery, 
Teased me more and added up to
The stressful day I had:
My Boss babbling bullshits inside my ears,
The Clients-Over-the-Phone who need a dictionary
For every word I say,
The terrific traffic taxing three hours of my already taxed day,
The pestering rain,
This oil,
Among others.

Oh, the day-long rain today meant that
My partially dry clothes from yesterday’s laundry
Will stench, like a rotten-egg, being denied of the right light
And from the hugs of the Sun.

Worst was that the doings of the rain mired
The virgin whiteness of my
I-saved-up-for-two-years-before-I-was-able-to-buy
Lacoste shoes.
My shoes now looked like a toiling carabao that just
Rested from the muddy farm.

And you, cooking oil! You seemed to have
Conspired with the other urban evils.
But your game and victory has ended already
As the cured pork cuts are now cooked.
And this, heated argument we have would finally end as well.

The viand’s starve-more smell insisted
That I leave my long day (stress) to the kitchen sink.
And so I ate my dinner, chewed the meat and rice like a King,
Took my time like a Queen and savored the tasty meal
Like a Commoner would, the meal that I have labored hard.

I burped.
And thanked God…
Smiled.
I went back to the kitchen sink
To wash the dishes
And along I flushed my day’s stress down the drain.