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