No more borrowed sugar—

you want the mixer,

the red costly one

that churns my granules,

your yolks, my flour

into upside-down pineapple envy.

You want the oven that heats

your hunger to a blister,

and an extra Band-aid for your heel

hoofing it up our long driveway.

You want the refrigerator

turning its cold shelf to your requests

for perfectly proportioned leftovers, and—

for your son’s Camp Susque show-and-tell—

you want our daughter’s hamster

scurrying beneath the shade

of the hefty appliance,

which we will gladly U-Haul

to your back door,

the one where good neighbors meet

to discuss shared dandelions, lawnmowers, 

power tools, husbands, 

one of which I refuse—in this 

baked-on summer heat—to lend

even to you.