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Kitchen Stories

In the kitchen

In the kitchen
I've found reprieve.
It's a place where busy hands
move about mindlessly
           picking up
and putting down
the kitchen’s things.

There, weary minds go
amongst the silent grime and constant clutter,
doggedly putting order back
while drifting through domestic routines.

Habit's familiar embrace
always numbs worries of other
                       existential things.
Between the clinking dishes, errant thoughts
skip like stones on subconscious lakes
of literary cliché and ubiquitous metaphor.
Hoary anecdotes dwell, here,
rehashing old memories,
never ceasing a better reinterpretation
                                of wispy
               ephemeral facts.
Washed clean,
the dishwasher clicks done.
All traces of previous meals,
hardly a ghost
on pristine
reusable surfaces.

Author's note: Hey there, how's it going? Glad you made it this far. Anyways, I bet you're sitting there thinking, what the hell? Maybe you're wondering just how much sarcasm I poured into this piece? Well, I can assure you none. But to make sure we're square on that, go back through my blog until you find a picture of me, you shouldn't have to go too far, take a good look at that picture and close your eyes. Now, imagine me sitting there, watching you read this, with not an ounce of sarcasm in my expression. None.

That should about do it.