Two Kitchens

Two kitchens, one supper.
You lift your spoon; I lift mine.

Sunday, my noon, your evening,
Phone propped on the flour tin.
You're teaching me your mother's stew;
I keep asking, "Like this?"
You say, "Brown it slower, slower."
I say, "Tell that to these onions."
You hold your pot up to the camera;
Mine looks nothing like yours yet.

Turn the fire down. Let it settle.
Wipe the steam off so I see.
You have never been this patient—
Not with traffic, not with me.

Two kitchens, one supper,
You lift your spoon; I lift mine.
Can't pass the bread across the water,
But we can take our time.

Stir it. (Slowly.)
Stay here. (I'm here.)
Two kitchens, one supper.

Your Gogo wanders past the camera,
Stops and asks to see my pot.
"More groundnuts. Let it coat the spoon."
Then, "The boy shows promise."
Highest marks I've had in ages;
I write her verdict on the fridge.
You read it from your own small kitchen,
Laugh and almost spill the dish.

Two kitchens, one supper,
You lift your spoon; I lift mine.
Can't pass the bread across the water,
But we can take our time.

I reach to end the call: "We've cooked it."
You put a plate beside the phone.
"You thought this was just a lesson?"
I set mine down. We eat it slow.

Two kitchens, one supper,
You lift your spoon; I lift mine.
One day we'll lean on the same counter.
Tonight, we take our time.

Your stove's off. My stove's off.
Neither phone goes dark.