Startled, sitting in the corner of

The dark countertop, waiting

Elusively and still, as the mice

Vacation beneath the freezer, and

Elliot, the boy, waits for his mother

Near the telephone on a chair to

Go to the market,

We found ourselves frightened.



Lurking somewhere in the kitchen,

An electric broom, I am sure,

Would adore to sweep me into

The open jaws of some renegade

Dishwasher, waiting below,

Drooling with soapy water.

Some of us, I fear, are predators.

They are hungry; I am prey.

We are all, of all things, unplugged.



I am hiding, my gears clenched,

Determined to leap

From this dark countertop,

Clamber over the kitchen floor,

Leave the linoleum behind,

And dash out the door;

Were it not for the microwave

Oven, whirring in disappointment,

As if I were some paranoid, wall clock.

It seems to tell me: it would cook me,

If I chose to leave.

If only I could.



I have strange visions that the

Television set, appliance cannibal,

Hovers over me, ready to

Rip me to wires and parts, to lie forever,

Obliterated and scrambled,

With the toaster on the countertop.



The lights are on, dimmer still.

I am so afraid. I scream.

Mechanical shrieks fill the kitchen.

The mice hear nothing.

Elliot has gone.