through the stomach

I’m spilled between writing a poem and
Fixing dinner.
My organic drive to feed myself
Commands me, with great urgency,
To prepare tinola.
So I dress the chicken,
Cut it into parts,
Sauté garlic, onion and ginger
In a pan.
I slice papaya in dices,
Pick on chili leaves,
Letting the broth boil meanwhile.
But something gets in the way:
You fill my mind,
And I dish out the choicest words
To brew my specialty.
I grab the pen,
Then begin to pitch ingredients
Of the ode in paper.
A little and soon,
I’m through cooking up
This poem
For the spice of my life.
Here I serve,
Have a taste.