Your Yellow Kitchen

by on January 3, 2022 :: 0 comments

I wanted to be a mariner,
but recall you bore me on land.
I wanted to be a flyer,
but again you never taught
me how to land.

So I became a poet and now sit
here under your sapphire table,
grabbing whatever crumbs
you choose to share.
I try to learn how to make
a difference from where I sit.

I still dream of your
yellow kitchen.
Thank you. Don’t argue.
The broken, the filthy, the incorrect.
All of it is wrong.

Even on this burning day,
when the most lethal radiation
will pierce many walls to touch us.

– Will Reger

editors note:

A kitchen confab inveigles verse; no argument. – mh clay

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