Other than the occasional jostle of the cooks
as they reach around my legs for tools,
I stand in my corner alone.
Melted chocolate pools shiny on my cold marble. I massage and stir it with my palette, watching it firm, be controlled into temper.
I can tell now
(without my thermometer)
that it has given up-
We speak the same language.
It goes back to the bowl to rewarm, in anticipation of what it will become.