DINNERWRECK

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 DINNERWRECK

No one can write poetry

with the smell of overcooked

lentil soup crockpotting

in their nose.


It’s a concoction so strong

The thought of it will send

the middle child to 

toss his cookies 

while his sisters wail 

And you, the resident adult,

are force marched, house to trash, 

atrocity in hand.


No, no poetry tonight. 

The best you can do

is stretch the windows wide open, 

bury all the nostrils 

and pray for a better smell

by tomorrow.

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