Formica and the Past

In the kitchen, a hum like a ghost in the walls,

the smell of stale coffee from early day calls.

A cutting board’s scars tell of hurried goodbyes,

where breakfast rituals danced under yawning skies.

The formica gleams with the light of regret,

a yellowed ring left, a sign of the debt.

Memories cling like the grease on the pan,

a record of time spent, a measure of man.