The kitchen is not a safe place
The kitchen is not a safe place
For a meltdown
It could be a museum
To the lost art
Of self-care
If not for the guilt
I would feel
If I chose indolence
Over activity
Sinking to the bottom
Of the biscuit tin
Staying my hand from executing
The instruction
To ovenbake
Necking the spirits
For elevenses
I wonder about the impression
I make when I speak
Or don’t
Second-guessing my impact
Undervaluing my contribution
Or do I?
Perhaps I overstate my position
In the countback.
I could be an escaped lunatic
Living in purdah
Behind closed doors
Hiding in the larder
Time runs at its own speed
When I stop waiting for it
To pass.
Swilling butter
Around in a deep pan,
Assessing the meaning of empathy
When I lost touch with myself years ago.
Basting a chicken
Marinading a steak
Pigs eat anything
Even each other
Lions and Tigers do too.
Chimps make chumps
Out of interlopers
Tearing them into bite-size chunks.
Outsiders always get the short end
Of the stick
Which sounds like a painful way
To toast bread.
I made a batter
It is preferable to rolling
In breadcrumbs
I laugh at the innuendo.
I must be a lunatic
To laugh when alone
To make jokes in the kitchen.
Toilet humour is a thing
Apparently
Do people wait until they have an audience?
I have always believed
Talking in a public toilet
Is not etiquette,
As the onion does its thing
And I am crying again.
If anybody could see me now
They would say
“I told you so”
Satisfaction guaranteed,
I aim to please.
Perhaps I have spent too long
Doing just that
I could disappear
In a puff of smoke
Who would know?
I would
Until I don’t
But the fire alarm
Would surely go.
The neighbours would be inconvenienced
Which is not a joke
There is nothing funny
About a sausage
But people do laugh at the strangest things
Even in retrospect.