This is a piece I wrote a couple years ago...

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The Wild Line Empty plates served up to lusting poets everywhere, Books of recipes, all pages blank, as hungry readers stare. The stove is cold and barren - pots and pans all put away. The cupboards, too, hold naught but dust. This kitchen is in shattered disarray. A lonely wind blows through and through, breaking in cruelty's dark and stormy night, but such contrasting emptiness with wild downpour obliterates a peace once held and now we are upheld by fright. The line grows long such that space and even time will not allow anymore expression of discernable emotion and truth, and so, with reckless abandon this poem and the poet's day does end, and this compels all readers, hungering for sustenance still, to rocket through the kitchen's absent roof.