In the Kitchen with London Grammar

Metal on metal scrapes the soundtrack to my parent’s cooking.

Our cold stone floor reflects the clash of dusty steam.

The chopping board echoes the bass; the air is taut

like the high-action strings on the fretboard of my young years.

High ceilings make the rhythmic clicks of the timer brittle,

The iPod is cool when I pull its surface in a circle of skimming time.

Mellow chords breathe into the room halfway through the album.

Water and glass slam together. Drops escape and gurgle onto the floor.

Poster paints scratched onto sugar paper crumple against the walls.

The streetlights seep underneath the blind,

Forming a slit of filtered orange on the dining table.

Whistling joins the strong pulsing of the music, harmonizing in a frayed soprano.

Night call arpeggios and potent traces of steaming mince hover upstairs,

Whispering into the nose and ears of my infant self.

The smell herds the family like a dinner gong. We gather in the living room,

where the music still intrudes, calming the noise of the road outside.

The song sounds shallow from the other room; the hall stifles the bass.

The singer’s voice rises in unpredictable volumes

as if underwater.

Cutlery scrapes plates,

conversation topples over music,

and the lyrics are drowned.