The Kitchen Ladies Poem by B. V. Dahlen

The tea was strong and black,
with clouds of drifting milk,
that swirled within the heavy mugs
of crockery, as solid
as the table top
on which they sat.

And metal ashtrays,
with centers full of stubbed discards,
smoldered, while hands,
with glowing pointers,
gestured through the air.
They empathized their words

with nails of passion’s fire
and blushing pink,
chipped, like the enamel
on the corners
of the table.
Their harmonizing lips
spoke words
as cold as it's surface.

A melmac plate of sticky buns,
still clinging to a waxed serviette,
and wafting cinnamon,
enticed a spate
of broken promises,
and diets foiled again.

So once again,
Mom's Tuesday Morning
Kitchen Guild
would solve
the problems of the world,
and plum the conduct
of their erring kin
and neighbors.