Bitter

I've found a book with some of my short scribbles in, so in the spirit of "putting it out there" here's one, called Bitter.Feel free to constructively comment or share

In the kitchen, in the middle of the polished wood floor I weep.
You on the other hand are nowhere to be found. Not in the chicken soup and kneidlach that simmers on the hob, not in the fireworks of flour that dot the worktops and surfaces of every shiney new appliance, not in the gefillte fish and crisp green salad, nor in the bottle of bubbles.
So where are you?
Where are you as I sink amidst the flotsam and jetsom of my culinary surprise?
At an intimate eaterie spooning billet doux to your latest squeeze it seems.

I start to clean, crashing and banging about this status symbol kitchen ,custom built to distract our families from the cracks in this shared life. As the room becomes ordered my disarray grows.

Your brother called and let slip your whereabouts

"But it's Sabbat David, what do you mean he's not going to be home?"

He said only

"Shalom Rachel".

Peace? Not much chance of that.

So I offer up a prayer (or is it a curse) that every morsel let passed your lips tastes bitter.
And that includes her.