Cooking utensils, in the kitchen of a church

When the body and the blood have graduated;

Beyond the bones and

Blinking eyes.

& Whistling lips.


When spirits dance off this planet,

Onto the next;

Forks and knives,

and spatulas


Dracula reserve the right to take part.

Taking part in this flight of the condor.

If they do,

They do so in the sanctity of meticulously  labeled  drawers,

Touched by many hands,

(A carpenters to start)


By quick hands,


 By the graceful caress of hands fallen limp.

These utensils brought together from so many  different places,

And then assembled in this parsonage;

Attended with an unbridled patronage;

 Occasional knives of sterling  silver used to carve meat from bone

See no qualm rubbing elbows with stainless steel spoons,

Whose primary use is scooping up what’s left of the   chocolate pudding.

Decorated punch bowls born into  worlds of glass,





 Will fit snugly inside the warm embrace of

The whimsical plastic bowls that house

The fruit salad.

The same way the moon fits into a cold sky.

Scores of assorted mugs line the cabinets,

Some chipped ones, moved towards the back after repeated use.

Some are painted with portraits of fish.

Then there are others,

Coffee mugs with  such eccentric  prints that both the wallpaper that peels

On the wall behind

 The stove,


Wild chameleons,

Will both  seek

To strike like lightning…

  In order  to change their syntax


Their environment entirely.

Skillets and cauldrons take many posts around the busy kitchen.

Bubbling with fat





Left to simmer on stove tops.

Left to conjure up conjectures.

Some rest like tired grey elephants, backs and bottoms tired from lifting,

…And remembering.

…And remembering.

And some have made their way to the churches nursery, in a cursory fashion.


Now are played like steel drums on the banks of faraway  islands,

Welcoming incoming rowboats.

Welcoming  the waning tides.

All the  different metals resonate with hymns and gravity.

Cast and galvanized  alike, hypnotized

By ticking clocks.

Stainless and fine China,

Punctuated by those same clocks,

Whose alarms have now sounded.

A few of these good dishes,

Wrapped more tightly than most pharaohs

In order to provide for  the next millennia.

…For  at least the next luncheon.

These dishes,

(Even some desserts)

(That one’s that can see their  own breaths)

Are tucked away in the cold,

Where there is light, only when the door opens.

And darkness when it is not.

They were chosen to preserve the myth of leftovers,

By a committee wearing yellow gloves


Decorated  aprons;

Filled with crumbs and dystrophy.

Who will utter mostly  kind words, and

Smell of  talcum powder and gameshows.

These reverent  dishes know that they

Can safely rest behind the doors of the refrigerator.

Behind the walls of Jericho.

It’s facade,

Disguised with many magnets,

Introducing the  colorful alphabet to such  unlikely allies,

As take-out menus


Handwritten directions to a nearby shopping mall.

Drawing up contingency plans, for the fragile eggs,


Formulating an exit strategy,

To protect the  ambivalent potato salad.

The  yellow margarine is left uncovered…

On a white plate.

On a counter top.

Steadily melting…

Steadily aspiring…

For just a little  bit more.

The loaf of bread has fallen asleep.

Stale now.

Separate bottles of oil and vinegar remain upright.

The  thermostat  setting, turned only half way,

If, for nothing else,

To keep the deviled eggs, from freezing over,

In this time of revelation.

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