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Kitchen Stories

In the kitchen

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

There, minds go
            amongst the silent grime
and constant clutter,
doggedly putting order back
while drifting through the aether
of routine.
            It’s warm embrace
numbing worries of other
                        existential things.

In the space between
the clinking dishes, 
errant thoughts
skip like stones
in clichéd
metaphorical lakes.
Where anecdotes dwell
on the knowable past
            but never cease their interpretation
                                 of its 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 fuck? 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.