Steel pan in roadside dirt,
just beyond Exit 11: Quartzsite,
sun bouncing off like a flare.
Handle loose, rim dented,
but not ruined;
still whole enough.
It felt like one I swung
at Tomaso’s,
sweating
through the rush,
that night
we plated sixty covers
in under an hour.
Me, this pan,
were used
the way hard things are:
oiled, scrubbed,
flame-kissed and blackened.
Something thick stuck once,
then let go.
I lifted it,
right hand curved
around the handle
as though it never left.
Some things remember you
even when you forget yourself.
I set it in the backseat,
beside the blanket and bag.
thought I’d clean it up,
tighten the handle,
set it on flame,
hang it by a stove again.
I don’t believe in ghosts,
but I believe in steel,
in things that hold the heat
and give it back to you.
Kernel of this poem resurfaced from 2004. Driving the 10 freeway from LA to PHX.
