Monday, October 24, 2011

Her Kitchen by Lee Berg

Two small steps climb up,

and softness hardens

into brittle white,


every step,

a tattle-tale,

despite tip-toed


Golden doors whisper open,

but then shout shut,

to tell on me,

on my trespass,

on my teenage fingers

and their thoughtless touch.

Cool counters, wisely sage,

more forgiving

in appearance,

quietly accepting box,

but ringing cereal

poured so slowly

in her bowl,

in her kitchen.

Her voice

startles the silence.

Help yourself,

eat what you want…

what are you eating?

Her hands grasp

a blood-red drink,

I first think is tomato,

but her mouth

is hard,



Lee Berg

1 comment:

  1. Someone else will be driving the Truck as of tomorrow. I want to say thank you to all my contributors!