My Mother's Kitchen

Is a hard bed where his long golden red hair

Lays entangled on the cold linoleum floor.

He is young still, and quick to his feet.

As I curl up beside him I inhale the faint scent

Of earth caked smoothly to the rough pads on his paws.

My Mother’s Kitchen

Is an escape from the wet drops that catch

On the tip of his black nose.

The musk of the winter on his coat

Reeks sweetly like asphalt in a thunder storm.

And we sit listening to the pitter patter on the window sill.

My Mother’s Kitchen

Grows lonely in the years to come.

The honk of the horn in the driveway calls me

Night after night, and with my return I tiptoe

through the darkened kitchen, stepping over him as he lay

The quiet jingle of his collar in the dark tells me hello.

My Mother’s Kitchen

Is a burial ground where time passes,

Aging him more quickly than I can keep pace.

The scent of decaying bones lingers heavily in the air

Like the thick smoke of a wild fire in the summer

He rises slowly now and his appetite wavers.

My Mother’s Kitchen

Is empty with the frozen memory of his face.

The cold linoleum floor rests uncovered.

At night when I tiptoe through the darkness

I step over him, awaiting the gentle jingle that never comes

Only to realize that I am alone in my mother’s kitchen