This is the kitchen, where we bicker about everything;
past transgressions and fresh wrongdoing.
In the kitchen, nothing we do is ever right.
The dish is never clean enough,
and you should wipe the counter again
because you were too lazy the first time around
and I can still see crumbs.
We point fingers with secret smiles;
we twist the knife and laugh.
We confess our affection by causing strife
and with dissent, commit love.
But in the end, someone has to scrub the pot;
the one that's encrusted with dried, melted cheese.
I'm finished with that. FINISHED, I tell you! I shall never touch it again (except to print out 22 copies. dumb). I don't care if it's the worst poem you've ever read, or that it's not a poem at all. I don't care!
I've decided that we need a poetry tag, so I have created one. Capiche?
Personally, I find your honesty about our kitchen interactions somewhat discomfiting.
ReplyDeleteOn the other hand, I TOTALLY am the nicest ever in the kitchen.
So I now am going to blog. Partially inspired by you lovelies and partially inspired by my own craziness. You read?
ReplyDeleteIt is thotswithcoffee entitled daily drivel.
It promises to be drivelly.