by John Grey
This is the first fridge, the first stove,
that we took equal responsibility for.
And this is the cutting board
where I sliced my finger dicing onions..
That is the sink.
The hot tap still provides
lukewarm water.
The cold tap is as advertised.
And look.
There’s the dusty bay window
and the hole through which
roaches come and go.
And the candle supply
in the drawer,
for those many times
that we lost power.
As cook, I burnt more than I sauteed.
You still shudder to think of that fire.
More smoke than flame at least.
And thank God the landlady was away.
What about the shag carpet,
singed here and there
by the fallen ash of previous tenants.
And the window bars.
Who’d want to break in?
Break out more likely.
Not much stocked –
frozen dinners, canned spaghetti,
leftovers of leftovers.
And there’s trash overflowing
with pizza boxes.
A host of dirty dishes in the sink.
Yes, it looks, it tastes,
it all sounds just like nostalgia.
But this, in fact,
is where we’re living now.