On the floor the cold floor
my toes curl I contemplate
bread cookies pie
which smell will fill permeate the air
Comfort this is Comfort
apron strings tightened
dough makes my hands sticky
oil leaves a trail down my arm
puffs of white powder settle on the counter
clinks, slams, whirrs chop the silence
bowls dirtied washed dirtied
worries are poured in with the milk
beaten with the eggs cooked
I don’t know why people need therapy or spas
the kitchen’s got me covered with chocolate that is
Comfort this is Comfort
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