Kitchen Chronology

A sun with rays like broken glass,

a child's fierce, scribbled gold.

Next to a menu, time let pass,

a story growing old.

The faded logo, soft and dim,

of food no longer sold.

A greasy edge, a phantom whim,

a promise turned to cold.

The magnets hold them, side-by-side,

on steel, a common place.

Where futures shrink and pasts collide,

leaving their simple trace.

That bent-rayed sun, it looks at me.

The menu, barely read.

What meals were planned? What memory?

The ghost of hunger fed.