I

Pot roast, unattended for five hours
burns. The water evaporates, then comes the smoke,
blanketing your entire apartment with
a stench half-campfire, half-marijuana.
Soon your fire alarm will have the neighbors
trying to break down your door. When you
return with your date—a first date, mind you,
they will be waiting for you, complaining about fire codes.
You will unlock the door to a sea of gray.
You will open every window, turn on every fan,
and approach the pot. She will laugh,
explain that you lack dedication to your roast,
and wrap her arms around you, staring
at the charcoaled remains.

II

Pot roast, burnt for five hours,
does not go well with green beans,
no matter how much Worcester sauce you use.
Inevitably, you will find yourself eating ribs
at Chili's. On the way home you will
stop at a movie, then a park,
and between the stars and midnight ice cream,
you will all but forget the smoke and smell,
so that when 3 A.M. arrives
and you again unlock your door,
you will be honestly surprised that your apartment
is an ashtray.

III

Apple cinnamon air-spray is the only way
to rid yourself of the smell of burnt pot roast.
She will discover this four nights later,
having spent the three previous nights
trying candles, incense, potpourri, and baking soda.
It takes effect slowly, and at first
it will smell like you've been smoking apple pie,
but everything eventually cancels out.
The canceling will occur as you cuddle
on the couch, your armed pinned between the
back of her cashmere sweater and a cushion.
You will be watching the Late Show, marveling
at the new fragrance, imagining that somewhere
apple-cinnamon atoms and burnt pot roast atoms
are conjugating, then casually fading
out of existence.

IV

Your first kiss will have nothing to do
with pot roast. It will be a cold March night
after a piano concert. You will have been planning
it all along, except for the surprise
torrential downpour. Out of concern
for a leather jacket, she and you
will run for the car.
She will trip on the sidewalk.
(Later, she will confess this was on purpose).
You will lift her up, decide what the hell,
and between frosted breaths embrace
for an hour outside the concert hall.

V

Pot roast, cooked for five hours to perfection,
the aroma singing as you open the door
and present the roses, will make you slip
and tell her you love her.
Not immediately, of course. In fact, you won't
know how or why, but it will happen
late that night, on the edge of a dream.
In the morning, it will terrify you.
You will make an excuse about working early
and be out of there A.S.A.P.
You will dodge her calls for three days,
then decide it's a perfect time to "find yourself"
on the open road. You will disappear
for two weeks, and at some point, she will
stop calling.

VI

Six month later, the smell of pot roast
unattended for five hours, burnt to ash,
intermingled with apple-cinnamon air spray,
will still be there. Not in anything obvious,
but in the accidental things—
when you fall asleep on the couch, your nose
pressed against a cushion;
an old blanket in the back of your closet,
brought out for the winter;
the window curtains brushing against your face
at night as you close them.