#93 WE FOUGHT IN THE KITCHEN
#93 WE FOUGHT IN THE KITCHEN
(Americana)
(DEMO)
(Full Arrangement)
Right at first light I'm already up,
The coffee pot fills with steady drips.
Alone in the kitchen, cereal on the floor,
The full mug warms my fingertips
Windy this morning, yellow leaves flutter by,
Stare at the pic of me and Wilma -- big toothy smile.
Lean against the sink, coffee cup in one hand,
With my other slowly trace the counter tiles.
The oak table my Grandpa built from scratch,
The brown fridge -- still works with the patch.
Where we'd eat, drink and laugh -- but never fight.
Then we fought in the kitchen last night.
Last night talking about Aunt Wilma's money,
You give a small shrug "How best to use it?"
I'm pacing, worked up, say "She believed in me!"
Point at her picture "Help my dream, not lose it!"
I'm at the sink, arms crossed, you're cleaning the table.
You say "Hobbies shouldn't be more than they are."
I freeze. The clock ticks four times, then I stomp and say
"She saw me better than you ever will by far."
The shelves we built together in a hurry,
And the beige paint we used to save money.
Where we'd cook, listen and talk -- but never fight.
Then we fought in the kitchen last night.
Before the kids have stirred, you walk in the room,
See the cereal on the floor, go get a broom.
Sweep, pour your own cup, place on the table,
Don't want to look at you, but I'm finally unable.
With arms out, you turn your palms til they're showing,
I wait... Then nod, turn to watch the leaves blowing.
The cork wall where everything got stuck,
The sideboard that held Sunday potluck.
Where we'd plan, dance and cry -- and never fight.
But we fought in the kitchen last night.
Wilma gave me a small gift,
The day she said "Now! Go begin it!'
And for years, best I could do was,
A page or two in a spare minute.
But I looked at that gift every day,
And hoped my work would excite her.
On the wall where I write, small framed cross-stitch,
All upper-case -- "I AM A WRITER."