Kitchen Witch

The crash in the kitchen
a slipping bowl hot out of the washer,
oily hands and misdirection.

The woosh of affection
a scent in the hallway that lingers
when muffins bake, or sugar syrup
for the hummingbirds has been left too long.

Pile up like recycling, zipper bags
that don’t ever get squeaky clean
always a little slick on the outside
but the inside is scrubbed.

Grow like weeds, a drawer full,
new ones every week. She can’t
ever seem to throw away the parts
that might still get used.

Blame it on her depression grandmother,
and war-time baby momma. What can be saved
will be saved. Meanwhile, her grind
gets under your skin, percolating
like beans in a press., Day One 2020: action metaphor for your life.

One day late.

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