It was only a frying pan. A circle to smash eggs in.
A black hole for red pepper flesh and weepy onions.
It was only a frying pan. The handle was huge,
longer than your arm, as heavy as I imagine
carrying you down the stairs was.
I wonder if you ever cooked a chilli in it.
The head was too small for pancakes.
Too small for meals bigger than meals for one.
That’s all I could think about when I put it on my hob.
It was only a frying pan.

© Carl Burkitt 2020