“At the Kitchen Table”

They sit and recount

Petty details

Stainless steel scraping across

White porcelain

Tearing apart a single day

Like they tear at the flightless bird

That is dinner

Their false laughter bubbles on the edge

Of something else, something

Waiting on the periphery

Hungry for a single word to ignite

Its anger

They sit with the pretense

Of being normal

But they are only fooling themselves

I should know

I am the one

That carries their scraps

And their weighted silences

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s