the kitchen is lonely

The kitchen is lonely without its smells—
bottles of oils, jars of spice. And I
warm nothing on the old gas stove.
As the Marc train chugs beneath this house,

bottles of oils, jars of spice, and I
rattle around. Cupboards creak, and the stove moans low
as the Marc train chugs beneath this house.
The wobbly window pane, photographs of you

rattle around, cupboards creak, and the stove moans low
from hunger. Longing blows, knocks
the wobbly window pane. Photographs of you
curl with old dampness

from hunger, longing. Blows, knocks
fill my lonely room. Memories
curl with old dampness.
They dwell where I linger,

fill my lonely room. Memories
of soup, ghosts of you—
they dwell where I linger.
It’s time to start a pot

of soup. Ghosts of you
warm nothing on the old gas stove.
It’s time to start a pot.
the kitchen is lonely without its smells.