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What\'s in My Kitchen

 

the fridge hums like  

an old dog asleep, tired  

and full of bones, bottles  

of beer sweating on the  

shelf next to the jar of  

pickles that no one touches.  

 

the sink, a graveyard  

of dirty plates and  

coffee cups, waiting  

for a savior with rough  

hands and half a mind  

to care. 

 

the stove is scarred  

by the last bad meal,  

forgotten leftovers lurking  

in Tupperware coffins,  

while the floor collects crumbs  

like memories no one wants.  

 

the light flickers like  

it’s bored, another  

fight with the toaster,  

burnt toast again, like  

it’s a ritual, a prayer  

to mornings that never change.