Santoku

On countless kitchen counters cutting
Plump tomatoes, new potatoes, slicing
Leeks and lettuce, beets and peppers,
Triads of scallion, garlic, ginger next,
There’s a dinner to be fixed.

Breasts of chicken now we mince,
Flesh gives way, but I don’t whince.
Giblets, joints and skin and bones,
Above his dulcet tenor tones
His artful skill my master hones.

Quickly now, the squash needs dicing,
The rest is there, ready for spicing.
Caref’lly next those herbs you’ll chop;
They’ll eas’ly bruise if my heel you drop.
My rhythm follow, never stop.

On you my virtues I bestow,
With time our mutual bond will grow.
And now we’ve done this one last task,
One final thing of you I ask:
A whetstone, please, my crimes to mask.