slim · kitchen · last swept when the door was off
when the kitchen door swings open it shuts itself against the wall with the gentlest knock, and the corner it makes — wall, door, floor — is no wider than a hand. an apron has hung on the inside hook since a Tuesday no one has dated. a long-handled match-tin sits on the floor with three matches in it.
formerly there was a fly-swat, a calendar from a coal merchant, and a slate on which the day's bread total was kept. all gone. now there is the apron and the matches and a small constellation of crumbs the floor has never quite given up.
the cat presses its shoulder into this corner during a thunderstorm. the child stands here in trouble for under a minute and is forgiven. the keeper closes the door at night and forgets to look behind it for whole weeks at a time.
field-note: the corner has its own air. the kitchen's warmth does not quite reach the back of the door.