The Fear And The Kitchen
By Steven W., Bridgewater, MA
Startled, sitting in the corner of
The dark countertop, waiting
Elusively and still, as the mice
Vacation beneath the freezer, and
Elliot, the boy, waits for his mother
Near the telephone on a chair to
Go to the market,
We found ourselves frightened.
Lurking somewhere in the kitchen,
An electric broom, I am sure,
Would adore to sweep me into
The open jaws of some renegade
Dishwasher, waiting below,
Drooling with soapy water.
Some of us, I fear, are predators.
They are hungry; I am prey.
We are all, of all things, unplugged.
I am hiding, my gears clenched,
Determined to leap
From this dark countertop,
Clamber over the kitchen floor,
Leave the linoleum behind,
And dash out the door;
Were it not for the microwave
Oven, whirring in disappointment,
As if I were some paranoid, wall clock.
It seems to tell me: it would cook me,
If I chose to leave.
If only I could.
I have strange visions that the
Television set, appliance cannibal,
Hovers over me, ready to
Rip me to wires and parts, to lie forever,
Obliterated and scrambled,
With the toaster on the countertop.
The lights are on, dimmer still.
I am so afraid. I scream.
Mechanical shrieks fill the kitchen.
The mice hear nothing.
Elliot has gone.
|
