My kitchen sink is a gastronomic warzone
of food scraps, glass, metal and china
a lingering fusion of spice
drip drops of tomato sauce and olive oil
splattered all over the hotplate and tile wall
like a Pro Hart canvas
leftovers are scraped into the tidy bin,
well, according to Murphy’s Law
some land onto the floor
making a mess of the whole damned thing,
after each squeeze, the detergent bottle bubbles
the last erupting beads of lemon scented liquid
prove stubbornly resistant
spa steam rises making me sweat
water trickling from my brow into the salt lake
triangle at the front of my neck
I suppose that rubber glove on my submerged right hand is a hole in disguise
as my fingers start to swell becoming twice their original size
each utensil blindly lifted from the milky tub is a lathered revelation
and randomly driven about the basin
the last stubbornly concealed from elevation
crockery chips on the stainless steel tap when I don’t concentrate
oops, there goes another set!
plates are piled high in the super bowl
elevating Archimedes principle
dam! (or was that Eureka!) a wavelength spills onto the splash back
and in my panic I unplug the sinkhole
fingers fumbling in desperation to seal the sucking! chasm
at last, all is rinsed and strategically stacked onto the drying rack
until it suddenly topples over as I turn my back,
casseroles crashing to the ground giving me a heart attack
I wipe down cupboards, hood, hotplate, bench, microwave, oven, sink,
and mop the kitchen floor, but of course
when I take the rubbish out there’s a !@#$%^ tear in the plastic!
FANGTALES 