Bulbous, chromed like a Fifties car;
fifty years old, like the house;
only one burner still lit—
even unwatched pots wouldn’t boil.
Offhand advice said junk it.
But not our friend Klaus.
Clanking, he leapt from his truck,
cranked the stove’s snowy hood;
peered into glass-fuse orbs.
Gingerroot thumbs nudged coils.
With falcon-beak pliers, he stirred
black-lava reaches of crud,
knit frizzing wire. He eased
the range sideways, humming;
draped copper around new bolts,
strands over a child’s ear;
tapped; squinted; hovered—
ruddying, a quartet of suns.
Klaus shook his head at our cheque,
scooped tools, patted the stove’s
chipped door. “Bake me two stollen.”
With your double labor of love
you will have given us hundreds,
and all you ask is two loaves.