The kitchen knives me
As I can't get the vacuum any cleaner.
Deterring detergents drain in the dark
And I am approached by an aging, bleaching agent,
A schemer who wants me to turncoat.
Anger dust accumulating outside –
I can sense the lynch mop gathering.
Try to stay out of the gas ring, out of range,
Lay low in the mortars, Martyr Luther.
"A water-pitcher with no batter" they said,
"An egg beater!" though I never raised a hand;
When will the scales fall from their eyes?!
Shag-rug-rake it all –
So now I'm Don Quiche Hot, eh?
Me, a mere flat Sancho Pancake batter worse than bite.
I'm living on borrowed kitchen-timer, having reached a carving fork in the road.
Totally out of my grill element,
I fear a severe case of solutionless utensillitis.
Yet these are cutting edge verses
Worthy of Pie Tin Pan Alley!
Ay, a clever verbal cleaver –
I am not yet dinner's ready to kick the bucket
Erez Asherov
החיים בתהיתי 