Kitchen Memory

You could say I am pulled like the arm
of the old man stuck past his elbow
in the disposall as he stoops over the sink
in high-waisted pants, muttering in Greek.

There was a siren wailing down tiredly
atop a miraculous red and silver fire truck
when in came the big men with axes drawn
and a pipe wrench was soon deployed.

Calm down, Papa, they’re here to help you.
And still I feel the bite of the steel teeth
that comes not from the machinery of fate
but from my inability to let go of the spoon.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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