I look in every cabinet twice
before I notice the sauce pan
hanging on a rack by the window. 
All the silverware matches.
It’s in the wrong drawer.
Nicks from dinners I’ve never
cooked form constellations
on the skillet’s burnt bottom. 
I reach for a wooden spoon, 
but it’s a can opener. The glasses
are all spices, the spices are all
plates, and the plates are all
big plastic cups. So many cups. 
If I were granted three wishes,
I’d seriously consider giving
everyone alive a chef’s knife
just on the off chance I’m
there trying to cut an onion.