Poem: Kitchen

Kitchen

where every morning
Dad cooked oatmeal
that nobody wanted.

there it sat,
children scurrying to the bus,
parents to work.

It held the fort!
to be discovered that night
soaking in water.
Turn of a big spoon
(and at least one stomach),
and it slipped from the pot
into the garbage—
one slimy glop
       PLOP!
(and the bottom of the pan
gleamed).

It was, you see,
not altogether a waste—
like certain ideals
unspoken so long,
(or always)
about family,
     of blood
     and memory
     and expectation.
Knowledge undigested,
congealed—

but somewhere in it,
love.