cooking in the kitchen

a little metal click, a connection
then separation, subsistence
the utensils jangle in drawers in the kitchen 
little songs are sung as long as you listen 
under heavy breathes from the cook, they scurry 
i hear toe taps, footsteps, a calm then a hurry
little tiny movements, like the ones i strain for 
because when i got up today my legs were sore 
they gave out under me and i collapsed 
like bones and blood all in a burlap sack 
so i sit in my bed, cold and stinging
my chest pain shooting, my ears ringing
i feel like a yacht’s anchor,
holding down a fishing boat 
i’m interrupted in my anger, 
thinking of dreaming instead of sleeping 
my meal is given to me to be eaten
but i haven’t had a morsel in days 
and my dehydration dries my eyes ooze  
clouding my view of my platter of food 
i dilute my soup with salty tears, 
rolling off my nose
my mother's cooking in front of me grows cold
even toast, it’s a shame to waste 
along with my body, my frame, and my entire headspace