Kitchen

A once-little room, about 6m²,
Just big enough for those who lived there.
Where voices lived on, and stayed in the night,
Whose white walls were bathed in pale yellow light.

Two chairs and a table to the right, by the wall
All made up just such that they folded up small
Close and compact, it’s an intimate space,
Where stories, and cards, and meals took place.

Across, to the left, lay the heart of the room.
Who filled up the air with the heat of its womb.
Whose head ran hot with the fire of its mind.
At the end of the day, only scents left behind.

In the corner, to the left, is a small coffee spot,
An ever ready kettle for making water hot,
A small coffee can that smells just a bit charred.
Above, “Bonjour!” is written upon a postcard.

To the right lie the sink who, from time to time, drips
With the water of life that flows from its lips.
A stream of dishes that never stops flowing,
A cleansing cacophony that, always, is growing.

In the final corner, the windows stand bright,
Friendly, and square, and bordered in white,
By whom motes of dust are lit in the air
Of the once-little room, about 6m².