snapshot of the kitchen
The sides are now a sickly, patchy yellow
A dotted, patchwork like smearing of great disgust.
Vague pictures of freckled eggs
Or setting skies where clouds lap over one another;
If they were yellow that is
Crop up as cloth meets dull surface.
Pre Ordered products and the rhythmic sound of scrolling,
Eyes fleeting across electronic pages for realistic advice
That does not cost yellow itself.
The artificial sharpness of lemon bleach,
A stench that makes your mind go woozy
Blankets your other senses in a biting numbness that is hard to fade out.
Cupboards scratched with age and rough handling stick
Out from cobbled walls,
The palette of colour not fluid in the slightest;
Earthy brown, creamed white and morbid yellow,
A dash of black and blue running through this puzzling display
Thanks to appliances
Brought on a whim.
stained and unable to revert back,
the tap continues to run slowly,
The outside disruptance does little to affect the inner workings.
There is a woman amongst this silent chaos of unnatural tints
And violent tinges.
Hair scraped back, flecked with clear grey
Strong against dwindling brown; walnuts.
Short and warm with the eyes that span time
Rapid footprints signal the copycats coming to play
Chided as the oven glows faintly
And scorches the air to a crisp.
Button nose is not quite correct; a penny more favourable,
Crinkles from laughter and stress that frame a
Face still beautiful despite generational shifts in standards,
Wearing only what she finds good
Without a care for if it suits her red skin,
A mismatched green and gold,
Gypsy jewelry that completes the view.
Crosses that lack a faith and
Yellow roses that steal the sun’s hue.
The room of jam tarts, pre rolled pastry and china horses
A marrying of old and new conventions,
She says that it is nice to know
That she is not quite dead yet,
And to get out of the kitchen.