Poetry day 3 - Kettle


Kettle
Polly puts the kettle on when she is fed up.  This is a mistake because as she slams the dented red metal down on the kitchen table, hot water takes its cue and leaps out.  She watches as the scalding stream hisses towards her arm, bare to the elbow and waits for the bite.  She could have moved but she chose not to.  She could have screamed but she chose not to.  The mistress looked on fast movements and loud noises with little enthusiasm although she was four floors up.  When you least expected it, she would make a comment about the running of the house and you would lose your monthly afternoon off.  Polly spends the rest of the morning with a sore arm and worsening temper.  She needs that afternoon off this week.

I decided to try prose today.  It might lead to something.  Or not.

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