There’s twenty porcelain bowls upon the ground

And flame retardant foam inside the sink

Two forks behind the washer I have found

The others are beneath the stove, I think 

 

What happened to the toaster I can’t say 

Sometimes a fella truly just sees red

That flimsy countertop was in my way 

Sometimes a fella fails to keep his head

 

I do not think the heavy iron casts

Now lodged within the drywall hit their mark 

In my defense, the biggest light was smashed;

It’s hard to hit your target in the dark 

 

I fear the stove’s behind that smell of gas;

It lies beneath the fridge’s crushing weight 

But you should worry more about the glass-

The window broke when challenged by a plate

 

The blender cable’s sparking in the spray

That’s sprinkling from the damaged ceiling sprout

The grease thrown from the fryer marks the way 

To where that little bastard scuttled out 

 

Where I grew up, the winters got too cold;

By mid September all the bugs would freeze

Before you mourn the tableware or scold-

I am not used to horrors such as these