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Kitchen Dervish

I know it drives you crazy to watch me in the kitchen.

Too much restless energy for you to abide.

I suppose I could slow down a bit, take it easy.

But here is where I dance my dervish dance.

For me to get where I’m going I must dive in with everything I have,

Chopping, dicing, sautéing my way into a trance.

As my hand glides back and forth across the plane of the mandoline slicing potatoes for a gratin there is a music in the motion,

If you’d quit fretting long enough about whether I’m going to slice my fingers off,

you just might hear it.

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Categories: Poetry
  1. May 19, 2010 at 6:06 pm

    So believable and so clear that I sort of feel like a voyeur for reading this. 🙂 Those last two lines had me grinning till my jaw hurt.

    Thank you for sharing this poem. It has much personality.

    Cheers.

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