aqua green
cooking appliances rumble, like
the mail truck outside,
in a kitchen whose age
trumps my (almost) sixteen years, where
the tea kettle fidgets, blowing kisses in
the corner, leaving steamy lipstick smudges
on the cupboards
while grandma takes her blood sugar in the den,
and the patio furniture cocks a rusty head at me
through the screen door, asking:
why aren’t you outside?
asking like the rumble of the mail truck
and the steam of the sweetened afternoon
