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

If you'd like to say something about this poem, Sonia Hendy would be pleased to hear from you.

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