Mitt's Lament
The oven timer’s going off. Oh crap!
Before that, I was lying in the drawer
enjoying a peaceful little nap.
“She” grabs me and goes to the oven door.
I’m held by her left hand, while in her right,
my brother Terry – poor guy – she has got!
Beneath our padding, we’re both filled with fright.
She has not got a clue how that dang pot
feels torturous against our faded skin.
Our flesh, once bright red cloth, has grown so worn.
Abusing us for all these years – a sin
it ought to be! My brother’s getting torn
from all our washings. God, I feel so lost.
What happens once into the trash we’re tossed?
Writtenh May 12, 2020
N/A in Potholder Contest judged 5/18/2020
Now used for John Hamilton's N-A Re-Run 8 Poetry Contest
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