I do not play well with others,refusing to share my precious toys,the sizzle of bacon – mine,the taste of tangerine wine – mine,Now how smooth is that, I say,wrapping my hands around her,placing the apron gently overher head as she chops onions;these moments, these days, thisheat soaring kitchen, I do not share,the old left in the store, clutchingthe blister package of a new gizmo.