They know hours of frustration,
Cords curled, tense, along the counter,
Switches itching,
Filaments recalling heat,
Cusped blades aching
For the soft flesh of fruit.

But what eludes them
In their bursts of solitary purpose,
(acts one might mistake for violence)
Is the recipe, the greater scheme,
The contentment of the big box
The refrigerator humming
With the secrets, the contentment
Of his cool interior.