Unheralded saucers of service.
And blue feelings.
Cobalt stained reincarnations of Icarus,
Who at one point flew too close to the sun,
While being carried across the kitchen,
By trembling hands,
Onto a floor stained with sticky wine.
Over a glossy ocean finished with linoleum.
Rearranged into thousands of
Forming the principals of an
A muscular masterpiece,
Orchestrated by cardiovascular conductors,
Who long ago handed their baton to the next runner,
Always a slower runner.
In a much slower race,
Whose eyes were long ago,
But not by the rays of the ultra-violent television,
But by making the grave mistake of
Standing over the oven,
Intently watching water boil,
Instead of adhering to the
Universal allure of
The unique chemistry involved in
It’s drying process.
Although this task is undertaken on the
Canvas that is the four walls of a different room
An adjacent room.
A room with carpet,
…And a closet.
Whose use is
To be determined.
And whose vacancy is
To be determined.
This room absorbs the paint,
And it’s simultaneous smell,
Drawn and quartered.
So not to compete with the wafting fragrances of the forgotten recipes,
Of the kitchen,
That are tucked so carefully into the precise folds of the wallpaper,
That are just now slowly beginning to yellow and peel.
Like the bananas on top the fridge,
Like the phone-book tucked beneath the sink.
However there is one
Criminally overlooked aspect of the previously stated emulsion,
And it’s labyrinthine involvement in
The drying process.
And it’s effect on the condemned room.
It will assuredly reduce the dimensions of the aforementioned
Inch by inch,
Coat after coat.
Like a hovering vulture,
Whose plumage isn’t definite.
Proposing an equation
Equal to infinity,
As an answer to
The rooms hollow,
That the kitchen
And it’s blue plates,
Will never share.