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.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: September 27th, 2024 12:15
- Comment from author about the poem: I wrote this poem when I was still drinking, still living in a log cabin next to a National Park in southern Louisiana. Today, five years sober, my apartment and kitchen are different.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments1
Very lovely and rather charming at that, rendered with excellent imagery and a haunting sense of poignancy which lingers after the close. I like it very much. Thank you for sharing!
Thanks Missy I appreciate your kind words
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