The Promise Of Risotto

On a sick whim, I lean in
to suck the hissing gas
instead of firing the burner,
just to see what that’s like. 
However, I stop quickly.
I’ve got good food to cook,
good enough for a last meal
in fact.  And if I get past that,
there’s decent dessert too.  So
I will stop.
I will not place my face so close
to death just yet.

It’s the little things that always,
always do the trick.  The cat
hovering nearby with sacred fur,
the promise of risotto, 
the desire not to leave a mess
for loved ones.  I take what I can get
from the bag of small miracles,
treat them as talismans.  Anticipation of dark chocolate,
pear cider, cool night air on open skin;

I try always to fill my hand with whatever makes it hard
to grip a razor.