A terrible poetic potential in old crockery
haunting
symbolic of so much lacking
Faded, painful ghostly memories conjured as one alone rummages through her kitchen cupboards
Like a rat in winter, sneezing-
discovering the pots and pans previously brandished by her home-bodied other past halves
They are now left empty, clanging, angry, bitter, unto alternate existences.
She no longer needs them, surely.
A reliable kettle and microwave to settle the evening
Truly, I can order myself flowers when I need them, but it just doesn’t feel the same.
I release expectations and welcome my next tea set.