—
This poem speaks to me
of the crock pot Ted gave me for Christmas
of the hundred rubber bands
from the Tulsa World newspaper
of the potholder woven by Granddaddy Walker
in the last year of his life
(and that I never use,
but always keep in the kitchen drawer)
and spices that I’ve had since the early 80s
the wok from my first ex-wife
hand-blown glass from Mexico
Grandmother Walker’s silverware
(embossed with the letter “W”
that I pretend is an “M“)
the ceramic cup with my name,
gifted by Aunt Pete a dozen years before she died
the electric grill from Mom and Dad
the milk-glass bowl that Grandma Mathis
served ice cream to little me
and so on.
It’s a wonder I can ever consume a meal at home
with all these memories stirring about.
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