Under the kitchen table
I lie in waiting,
The enemy surrounding all sides.


The strainer, my hat;
A spoon, my gun;
The tablecloth, my uniform.


They approach.
Armed with peas, carrots,
Bread crumbs, and meat scraps, they besiege me.


Not a sound do I emit.
I watch.
The rebels move in; I shoot.


BANG!
Mother yells.
The Battle of Kitchen is won.


Mother sends me to my doom.
Up the bleak stairs,
The door to suffering swings open.


Inside the "Fortress of Bed"
I lie in waiting,
The Enemy surrounding all sides. . . .

© Ruth Goltz 2004