‘Kitchen’ by Greg Moglia

I turn on the kitchen light and there is the steak knife
Mother threw at my knee when I dared to lounge at the dining room table

Not even a sting, only the first trickle of blood
And the rattle of the knife onto the floor

Pulled me out of the stupor of sport page reading
Dad for a moment leaving the TIMES says to mother Are you crazy?

Mother answers How many times did I tell him
Knees off the table

Grandpa Pete cuts up stale bread in a soup bowl and plans
To soak it with coffee – his poverty breakfast in a middle class home

Look the yellow rose dishes free with one movie admission
Collected by mother for years until she had place settings for eight

And there is Grandpa Pete dying of heat stroke in a kitchen chair
And brother Ron pleads to Mother to call 911

While mother worn out from cleaning Gramps dirty underwear
Says to my bother…Not yet, not yet

And on that last cancer filled day my mother asks me from her bed
To make a soft boiled egg

And when I brought it to her tells me I made it too hard
I grit my teeth and decide who in the world I knew best of all

Until picking up her tray and heading towards the kitchen
I hear a voice I did not know saying

Thank you Greg and suddenly the air
Filled with my ignorance and never smelling so sweet

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