They Will Come for You with Their Spatulas
…making orchestral maneuvers in the egg
They will come for you with their spatulas, standing upright in sulfur-yellow Reston Lloyd utensil holders.
They will come for your burgers, your breaded fish, your pancakes, your over-easy eggs with the crispy edges.
They will come for you in their “Kiss the cook” aprons, scraping batter out of bowls.
They will come for you, lifting your lasagna with their heat-proof silicon, grinning their slotted-steel grins.
They will come for you in offset mode, frosting cakes and buttering cats with abandon.
They will come for you hacking the air with a whuff-whuff-whuff like a broken ceiling fan.
They will come swatting your errant flies, leaving entrailed smears on your marble countertops.
They will come for you, making orchestral maneuvers in the omelette.
They will come rasping out of your Easy-Bake ovens, presenting you with their burnt offerings.
And you will say, “We should have known. We should have seen them coming.”
But it is too late.
And they will not hear your cries for mercy.
For they have neither ears, nor eyes, nor have they souls.
They are merely the wielders of those
Who deliver us unto the plate,
Levelling the goopy,
The purple and the neon,
For ever and ever,
Kenware.
