Pattern 402

The new stuff is stone, cold and white,

catching the glare of the overhead light.

But I miss the gold flecks and the cracked outer edge,

the way the old counter lived on the ledge.

There was a dark ring from a pan left to sit,

where the heat of a dinner had scorched it a bit.

Now the kitchen looks like a showroom for souls,

with no room for the chips in my cereal bowls.