Supper Time

I'm sick of you

Using my back as

A knife block.

My face for a dishcloth.

My eyes for a tap.

But they only run hot

For rage and pain make it so.

The hob is my cheeks

Burning red with embarrassment.

The fan oven, my mouth.

Breathing sighs – just ignore them.

The toaster's slots are my arms.

Red with heat and something else.

The boiling kettle.

My brow running with sweat

And fear.

The only kitchen implement

I can liken you to other than

One of the many knives in my back

Is the radio.

Always yelling, screaming things I never want

To hear.

I guess that's why guys say

A woman's place is in the kitchen.