At two to three
A buttery searchlight,
The stay-fresh fridge
Blinks the room.
A lip-smack door teeters.
His once-over stock-takes shelves.
Nimble-wing this hour
Swallowed to four chips of Gouda,
An unapproachable spatter, hollandaise,
A korma mush, instant garlic spread.
On this cuff are giveaway stains.
If you have any comments on this poem, Christopher Barnes would be pleased to hear from you.