Sense Sonnet - Steamer

 Chop

Often she hovers up above.

Veggies and meats she drops on me.

And then there is the chop chop of

The sharp blade of the knife which she

Cuts through all of the skin and peel,

Turning the whole into a bunch

Of smaller pieces for a meal,

Could be breakfast, supper or lunch.

Determination on her face,

Whatever time is on the clock,

There is a rhythm to her pace

Of chopping on this chopping block.

My human does throw me away,

Chops finger off on me today.