Comeona’ My Kitchen
By John Sangster
Push back the chrome dinette.
Slow dance on my linoleum
(clock radio knows the hits).
Tonight we cookin’.
Push back the chrome dinette.
Slow dance on my linoleum
(clock radio knows the hits).
Tonight we cookin’.
This the
Flat-ass truth. Cruisin’ down
Flatbush when Boom!
Flat tire. Gets out, hears music—third-floor
Mother’s violin waits in the attic,
wondering if it remembers how to sing.
Father’s songs (It meant he was happy)
hang in the air.
If I could say where I had been today,
describe a room holding its breath behind drawn, faded drapes,
hoarding its hope against the cruel demands of light.
If I could name the pleasantries punctiliously observed,
Thank you, Miss Barney
For not giving me credit
For those one thousand pages
For ten one hundred page books