The soul of a cheap existence

 Pull out the blackened stove top
where rust and grease have solidified
layered and infused, carbonized 
from a million burns

The blue flame
bulges out ready for the next pot
It looked like a spirit
an ultra hot flowing ghost

awkward oven and stove
falling apart yet just together enough for the next meal
The gas canister's sheen and brill 
contrasted with the metal corpse

Like the wealthy convalescent and their young swain
one fueling the last years of the other
perverse and practical
at the back of the slum