Beside a kitchen range of dull silver.
That fancy types, often paint black.
The disconnect: it comes when time passes.
An itchiness to have it over.
I feel the ritual,
stolen from a old place.
That’s worked, as long as memory.
The range is cold; it’s unlit.
A full on visitation, follows:
seated, black, and reaching over.
Then gone, back into the metal.
did anyone see ?