The Kitchen

What home feels like to me.

The Kitchen

Strong white hands,
covered in flour,
kneading the sticky dough.
The money is tight
and tensions are high.
The house is cold
during these winter days.
The Orlando vacation is a dream,
vanishing with the morning sun
like the dying ignorance of youth.
The floury mix
drops to the board, sending
a white haze into the air.
Would we still go
if the money was there?
The bleached cloud brings tears
to your tired eyes.
The roar of the furnace
blows cold air that fails
to warm our frosty home.
There’s always something to fix,
you say, putting the dough
in the buttered pan.
The timer buzzes, signaling
that the oven is ready.
Into the hot oven the mixture goes
as I sit back and watch you work.
The kitchen is warm from the baking,
and the wonderful smell of bread
drifts through the house.