Ode To a Cast Iron Skillet

O, my cast iron skillet,

black and round

and heavy

(my lord, oh so heavy),

how you sit flat

and firm

on my stovetop,

unlike that cheap Teflon crap

that gets all wibbly wobbly

over time

and can’t fry an egg properly

if its life depended on it;

Oh, how you heat so evenly

and refuse to be lukewarm

about any recipe

I choose to cook in you,

although I can tell

cabbage and broccoli

is not your favorites,

but do you complain?

Nay, not you;

Oh, how easy in the hand you fit,

making me wonder:

if my wife ever had to

beat my brains out with you,

would she enjoy the experience better

knowing your smoothness

would not chaff

her delicate hands?;

and Oh, how relieved it is

to know you will last

a lifetime and beyond,

giving me something worthy I can pass along

to my offspring,

their inheritance, if you will,

seeing that I'm cash poor,

but cast iron rich.

O, my lovely cast iron skillet,

black and round

and heavy,

ne’er would our meals

taste the same without you,

but you already knew that.

I can tell.