My last two kitchens had islands
the ultimate luxury
the kitchen I live with now
is bestowed more modestly.
So I follow the ways of my grandmas
and my mother, apt and able,
enlisting our four-legged friend,
the enduring kitchen table.
But I have a homey bauble
with which they weren’t stuck
a low-hanging ceiling lamp
which I cannot remember to duck.
Hovering over the table
at just the exact right spot
it clunks against my head
and elicits descriptive bon mot.
Some day I’ll explain to my neighbors
the reverberant mystery
the gong heard ’round the ‘hood
it isn’t Big Ben — it’s me.
Yes, I know, dear reader. I took liberties with my French. It was too awful not to use.