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,Â
an invitation for
objects perceived as insentient to ready themselves
for the feasting they will hold atop their burnished surfaces.
Teetering chairs tense,Â
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withdrawn at the mercy of a toddler transfixed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 theÂ
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 palmsÂ
to control theirÂ
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.