there’s a vampire in every kitchen

in every sad song,
there is the ending forlorn day.
in every burning stove,
there is the sore crooked neck.
coming too close to bear,
watching the clock ware off words.
there is the occupation always,
that never fits the style,
and the weary  wear it so well
till that well again runs dry.
and we can drink in the silences
of our homes away.
i could go work in
another kitchen
in some other world,
but there is always one set
of hellish problems
that always seem to replace
copywrite:jeremy szuder


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