By Christina Meade Cohen
Lately I’ve been a kitchen poet
seeing poems in potatoes and so forth.
Needing to keep a pen on the stovetop
to record snatches of thought.
Ever-present toddler at my knees
repeats with gusto
the words I say aloud.
at the more preposterous ones.
Crowded in among shopping lists
and everybody’s schedules
my favorite poems hang on the fridge
competing for attention.
Just as satisfying as a well-cooked meal
my gourmet poems.