Dave Bonta's short poem gives us a man alone in his kitchen, worn out and a little defiant. The room is "red as a wound," a striking image that makes the place feel raw and sore, even though it's where he goes to rest. Comfort and hurt seem to share the same space.
Then he speaks directly to the oven, as if it were the only other presence in the room. His warning is half joke, half confession: he is "broke and a lush." There's no self-pity in how he says it, just a flat, wry honesty. The oven, a symbol of cooking and a proper meal, has little to expect from him.
The last lines turn to loneliness of a different kind. He is "weary of company for supper," which suggests he would rather eat alone than perform for other people. The mood is dry, tired and bruised, but also oddly peaceful, as though solitude is the one thing he can still afford.