Mitt's Lament

The oven timer’s going off. Oh crap! Before that, I was lying in the drawer enjoying a peaceful little nap. “She” grabs me and goes to the oven door. I’m held by her left hand, while in her right, my brother Terry – poor guy – she has got! Beneath our padding, we’re both filled with fright. She has not got a clue how that dang pot feels torturous against our faded skin. Our flesh, once bright red cloth, has grown so worn. Abusing us for all these years – a sin it ought to be! My brother’s getting torn from all our washings. God, I feel so lost. What happens once into the trash we’re tossed? Writtenh May 12, 2020 N/A in Potholder Contest judged 5/18/2020 Now used for John Hamilton's N-A Re-Run 8 Poetry Contest