On fire

I wish I could prevent words from leaping
Out of my mouth,
Stop thinking aloud.
He steals all the stories-
They trickle down,
Drop by drop.
Every word has a different taste,
Every word has a different base.
I am not an expert in cooking and blending.
Sometimes I am afraid to try,
But I keep dreaming of shaping and bending.
Last month the kettle exploded and
The kitchen was on fire.
I am still cleaning up but the hole never fills.
I think about the mess every day.
The things I was supposed to say.
He looks at me
Sitting down, he says:
"I love poetry."
He takes everyone's stories.
The miseries and the glories.
But there is nothing I can do about it.
I am too fascinated with his own.

© Colleen Yorke. All rights reserved. 2017.
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this blog are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. © All rights reserved.