| The Kitchen At the sink, smoking common sense, exhaling truth through the window, I crane my neck to see if stars really do shine on the righteous, but the glow of streetlights blind me. Inside, your coffee cup has formed rings exposing its age. I could place it in the jaws of the dishwasher, empty ashtrays into rolled stainless steel with plastic lips, sealing confidences. This would mean the night is over so instead I smoke the reflection; in the ceiling of my mind, I see stars. Sonia Hendy |
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