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My Mother's Kitchen

Tired but uncomplaining
My mother would step into her kitchen
Buried under crumbs
We created throughout the day.
Taking each fiesta wear dish
Out of the overflowing kitchen
Her mouth curled up, for a moment
As she remembered how much she loved there bright colors.
From sea foam and sunshine
To forest green.
She sighed again, however
When she was the oven
Half broken, we had to light it
With a blue stick lighter.
My mother lifted a finger
And tried to pick off
A burnt carrot from the burners
And wondered where the time
Had gone.
Above the stove
Hung a red and black painting
Of a rooster, with overly large
Feet
Which was unfortunately ironic
Because of the boneless, skinless
Chicken breats
Defrosting in a pyrex dish
In the microwave.
Mainly, here, in her kitchen
My mother wondered why
Her husband
Never seemed to get his plate
All the way
To the dishwasher.





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