The ladle caught me unawares
And ordered me to work it.
Its soup cup head of polished steel,
The cook in me daren’t irk it.
This shiny crown submerged in pulp
The creamiest of hues.
I throw a dollop on the stove
And watch it sizzle through.
A spatula swipes into my right
Poised ready for some action.
Of course a Swordsman’s lift and flip
Requires a certain traction.
Through sticky air this moonlight disk
Comes whirling into land.
I down my weapons obediently,
And attend to the feast at hand.
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