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  • Writer's pictureToby Gordon

A Room is Sentient

When time signals seven,

eager bodies haul themselves to a station of satiation.

As calloused soles of the residents shimmy,

the exclamatory floorboards groan an unpleasant anthem.

A song the handsome cedar planks rehearse three times daily.

Nine. Twelve. Seven.


The floor’s song is

a lament as to what will  come, 

an invitation for

objects perceived as insentient to ready themselves

for the feasting they will hold atop their burnished surfaces.


Teetering chairs tense, 

the granules and rivets of their pegs tighten

and retract

like the eyes of a snail bouncing in and out,

withdrawn at the mercy of a toddler transfixed

at the collision of an arrogant fingertip

with the delicately minuscule pupil of the 

snail’s naked eye.


In the kitchen,

the whisk is slave to the fervent hand.

Flavor inducing instruments

allow the creases and wrinkles of talent that

erode the fingers and palms 

to control their 

each and every move.


All the while,

The fireplace plays its puppet show on the wall.

Sap and moisture pop and sizzle in the flames.

Wood worts expel sweet nectar into hot ash.


The room bathes in a molecular mist as

suspicious flavors spatter the counter and wall elegantly,

painting a violent image with roux and batter and broth.

Coagulation avails itself to the lonesome drops of gravy

who embrace solidification without protest.

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