A wood kitchen will rot without the love

Like olive oil preserving its oaky finish.

Cracks materialize. Soft brown heads black.

Dad cuts and chews, Mom’s eager to scrape the pans

And conversation is collateral damage.


A table leg wobbles for the attention

But received a firm treatment of folded napkins

Underneath — a bandage on a mortal wound.

The cabinets used to squeal like pigs in daylight

At use, but now they’re mute. Too many meals

In a microwave. Abuse! cry the collected

Colanders stashed quietly in a corner,

But alarms don’t sound. The dark trend continues.


They let the house swallow itself in shadow

The only lights the thieving televisions

That become their eyes

And dry night spins on selfishly.