A Sonnet for Hoosier Kitchens

Everything is easier here, including
washing the dishes and falling
in love. The large sink floods
with soapy water and the burnt edges
of casseroles and the fried fish residue
succumb to scrub brush bristles, sharper
than loneliness. There is counter space
enough to let the pans air dry
before returning them to the dark
cupboards where they belong
and where they wait for the next
dinner which requires them to be filled
with spice and sauce while they hold
their shape over the heated coils.


p.s. no, i have not fallen in love... poetry is not strictly autobiographical.