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I stretch stiffly into the room,
out of the car I was in for so long.
The sweet smell of apple pie
fresh from the oven,
filled the room.
Could this be for us?
My Grandma was making dinner,
the dishwasher was humming;
the table set for seven.
It’s nice
to be in warm weather
where shorts and t-shirts are
acceptable.
My feet slide to the counter.
I hold the bowl,
mixing,
pouring,
creating,
the main dish.
This room is practical,
the way they like it
the way they designed it.
Would we eat soon?
The food is finally plated.
14 feet tap quickly towards the table.
I see myself,
sitting at the table
surrounded by people who care.



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Arpanan said...
Nov. 25, 2009 at 10:41 am
Yum! Your poem made me super hungry!!!! I love it, the ending is really good! You deserve to get five stars! :)
 
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