Home as kitchen utensil

This poem came from a prompt to compare two random things…

My apartment holds me
like the slotted spoon
I scoop the poached egg
from the pot with
each morning, retrieve
boiled potatoes from broth
chicken from juices.

Just the good stuff in here
the rest slides through
thin friendships, runny
ideas, the mind’s liquid
falsehoods—inevitable
accumulations slip
between the slots
in the bowl of the spoon
of my home.