If I don’t have 2 tbsp cognac, the book
says brandy will do, but I have neither.
Someone consumed both and the bottle

of 17 proof Pineau des Charentes from
my Irish friend Helen is an angelsyrup
inebriation, too lucious to slosh in a pot.

Instead of cooking I switch on the news
though it’s never good and the day has been
murder enough. Worst are the politicians.

I’d trade four for five Vegas dealers.
A report runs on heat deaths in Nevada.
Heat is nobody’s baby and 18 have died:

4 of them elderly ladies, 3 guys from
the shelter, the rest could be anyone: me,
you, a distant cousin. I tally the casualties.

They add up to the triple homocide
another blond anchor brought me last night:
one victim a child, no leads, more

brutal than the heatwave letting us
have it. In medical news, researchers
have developed a replacement

for joy. And woe is me. I’m at one
with my hunger. We equal each other:
an egg afloat in a bowl of salt water.