-the pantry-

the pantry made a more practical case for being

than the formal parlor, which was separated
from the crazy living room by a lintel arch.

one small window at the end of the pantry's
narrow interior was all that was needed.

the parlor was sterile in comparison,
cloaked in heavy plastic and closed-off 
to commoners by a proximity zone
as if an investigation was in progress.

the pantry had petrified
raspberry jam speckled on its walls.

It had the little aluminum strip running along the edge

of its counter like a belt holding the green formica in place.

it was in the pantry where the occasional mouse
would be found with its head caught in a trap

behind the little latched door under the counter

where the cleaning poisons were stored.

my young mother would lament: “poor little thing” as my father

lifted the tension of the fatal bar sprung at its neck,

pinch-gripping the animal by the end of its worm-of-a-tail,
tossing it into the backyard for the cat's afternoon performance

attended by me, the kid upstairs and usually a cousin or two.

   

                                                                      Quequechan