When the kitchen tells the future by John Grey

It’s afternoon in my kitchen.
Shadows come into their own.
One creeps across the floor.
Another shrouds the refrigerator door.
The one that I thought could only
spread horizontal, finds its vertical muse
at the iron feet of the stove.
It so easily swamps that metal monster
in its dim chill, as if the damn thing
never threw off a lick of heat in its lifetime.
Spice-rack’s no problem.
Cupboards are a breeze.
Even my own body, to which
I attribute many triumphs,
is overwhelmed by gloomy shade.
Details go, senses collapse,
my world is overrun with nothingness.
Sure it’s just my kitchen
on a late winter afternoon.
But until it really happens,
this is what it’s like.

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