The Artist

Each night he dines 
on the best we have to offer

Hiding stains, we rug-pull
and doily-dust, best china
(cracked)
warmed by his relentless grill

Lacks salt, please sweat some more –
I will not remember your sauce

He gorges and purges,
ungrateful,
yet we beg for his return

We can bake until we burn
but without his spark
it is only bread