The hum of the mixer fills the room
as they pour egg whites
and cloudy sacks of flour
in a metal bowl.

They're making dinner without me—
locked themselves in my kitchen.

Through the keyhole,
I peek at the chefs, their marshmallow soufflé hats
huddled around a steaming pot.
I sniff peppermint mingled with roses,
gingerbread with garlic.

Gallon jars of black olives
sit with ten cartons of eggs on the counter.

I wish desperately
for a biscuit, or a strawberry
to drop from the chefs' basket
and roll under the door.

Pots bubble,
while the delicious secret in the oven
keeps rising and rising.