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.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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