Dear, dear girls.I am just a humble microwave, hanging on the wall,
Above your stove, which you never use.I look down, and can see the pain in its range top eyes and I see the loneliness,
The desire,The envy.
I have seen the stove below me cry great tears as you so cavalierly fill me with bags of popcorn,When it longs for a simple tin of Jiffy Pop.
Frozen dinners, frozen burritos, chicken pot pies,All have gone into my cavity, where I spin it around, like a ride at Disneyland…
Or so I’ve heard, for I have never been there.And I make your food hot for you, so that you can eat and drip your drippings on your text book pages.
But the oven below,The poor, poor oven below, cries for the chance,
To heat you some water… simple water.In a pan, a pot, or a cauldron.
And so, dear friends,I must leave you, to save my oven friend below me.
To give it a chance to cook your food, to boil you water,To pop your corn.
But I shall return some day,After I find out what this Disneyland is all about.