Mealtime

Haven't written anything in months. Been reading all day and decided to try and get back into it. Enjoy.

The dish is most assuredly ruined

The canned sweet corn and green beans

Boiled over in my infinite arrogance

Flipping Gordon Ramsay a mental bird

His face is an old pan of oatmeal anyway...

The chicken overcooked while I dallied

Browned heavily on the edges

Meanwhile I stare at a half-finished cigarette

From 3 weeks ago

Resting on the counter

Seasoning hasn't given me any hope

The smells don't mesh at all

It reeks of failure in here

And I for one have had it

Poultry and vegetables make a half-hearted parabola

Coloring walls, stovetop and floor

The food matches the floor perfectly

Smattered yellow, green and brown

Like someone with Parkinson's had an artistic calling

At least something in here accepted this gruel

I crumple to the floor fighting tears

And resting my weight on a chicken breast

Most action I've had in a while

I look up at the stove

And think of Sylvia Plath

Perhaps this would be a fated meeting of minds

Then I realize that one of the two kitchen doors

Can't close all the way

I close my eyes and reach for the cigarette

Light it and inhale

Well s**t

Sexton owned a car

Berryman wasn't afraid of heights

I guess I have to get creative

September 4, 2015

Author's Note

All comments and criticisms welcome

Reviews

[Solar]

A crisp black humour - searing pain in with its images - a gripping poem.