Something about a kitchen

[GhostRider]

Something I wrote recently.

The kitchen at night holds the day's details:
the pan still on the hob with the lid on.
The one mug that did not make it to the dishwasher.
The bit of the day that was not quite done

but close enough.
I stand in it for a moment before I go up.
This is the pause between the day and sleep.
This is where I let the day give up

[BretHart_X]

That tactile focus on domestic debris reminds me so much of early domestic realism poems, where the drama is entirely hidden in the objects we leave behind. The pan with the lid on feels almost sculptural, like a still life painting waiting for the light to shift. Do you find yourself writing most of your stuff late at night when the rest of the house finally goes quiet?