The Fish Tank

The Fish Tank

I stared into the empty kitchen like into a fish tank filled with guppies.
The thought crossed my mind gently
as to what I could accomplish with nothing but utensils.
My bar stool pressed too close
so that my knees touched the granite counter,
as if to remind me not push myself backward.
The kitchen seemed so much bigger than myself as if it were expanding right before me.
I know that the necessities of what lay in the drawers gave the impression that one could live or die by their contents.
Little did I know that the spoon with which you fed me, served more than just one purpose.
One, to feed me with the scarps of last nights dinner and one to make me feel like I was caressed to sleep.
No nightmares come with the wooden ones, only does the stainless-steel feel like the marks on my body have the same shape,
Smooth and rounded with no end.
They call out to the drawers near to save me with the edge I crave.
Bounded only by the need to stay in the places ordered by the way “things are meant to be”.
The seeming order has been established,
just as the pantry has its order within a bigger picture of how the kitchen was meant to function.
I am not immune to the pots that are laid out in an orderly fashion,
meant to implicate that there is a system of the most utilized to the ones that are left for the more obscure occasions.
I have become the rare occasion that only comes in handy as the order in my kitchen changes.
From, orderly to the unintentionally chaotic
fish tank.