Kitchen Observation

Our mugs had eyes.
Behind cupboard doors,
they waited for a sliver of light
to glint off their steely glares,
their toothy smiles,
their alien surprise.
They saw everything.

In Dad’s left-handed grip,
they caught Sandy dipping her finger
in the sugar,
observed Teddy pinching baby Jane,
watched me sneak another page
under the table.
“When I grow up,” I said,
“I won’t allow eyes in the kitchen.”

Quiet now.
My mugs have ears.