My Warm Bright Kitchen
Aug 20 2008


My warm bright kitchen
smells of coffee, brewed fresh,
and the over-ripe scent of bananas
turning to gold.
In the big bay window
I see a towering maple,
its leaves flashing green and silver.

Through a small plastic box
in the far corner,
fencing-off a neat triangle of dust
I only notice in fall
when the waning sun slants-in just so,
word of the world leaks-in.
Each hour
a man’s cool clear voice
intones body counts,
dispatches from the war,
earthquakes in distant time zones.
He is well-trained,
his sonorous voice
concealing the pain.

I feel guilty,
thin-skinned, flicking it off,
before his words can penetrate
any further.
Before the inconsequential scratch
becomes gangrenous
— breaching these cozy walls;
overwhelming my frail immunity.