Despite the Bakelite ****
etched with a range of degrees,
the vintage Wedgewood oven
has only two temperatures:
warm and nuclear ash.
But **** it looks good—a sleek hulk
of white porcelain and polished chrome,
a 1950s Cadillac parked next to the fridge.

When the house is dark
the fluorescent stovetop
glows like a dashboard
illuminating candy wrappers and road maps,
and the kitchen soon stretches to landscape.

I wander in, whiskey in hand, and stand
on a road cutting across a darkened field.

Below cast iron burner grates
pilot lights flicker and burn:
blue seeds poised to blossom
when the Bakelite dials turn.

I reach for the bottle
and the kitchen ignites
into a meadow of larkspur.

Fragrant flowers
mixing bourbon;
I drink it all down,
let the blues drive.