Preheat oven. Slice, chop, blink.
She turns and her apron whirls. What beauty lies in this kitchen sink!
Sitting motionless and humming in the shower
Is the product of her twelve hour labour.
Another one is also still, waiting patiently, blindly,
In a dark room.
And then the third; tiny, twirling
Her curls make a picture as she wraps herself arms around a Dadda's legs.
They are not so long.
He is deaf- drowning, frowning
In the pixels that rub and pat his head:
Loud!
So loud no one can hear the other little noises,
The little choices
That she is making in the kitchen.
Like, how much gas?
Or, what colour blankets should she shove under the door?
And, who will make the eggs tomorrow?