Hold things one couldn't possibly imagine
It always is a source of shock and awe, ire too
When one rummages through one at night
There is that mint chutney in tiny bowls
Sitting like a sniper, behind the curd vat
That random lemon, now dehydrated to brown
That fell forgotten into the some corner far
A few serve cups, with scant ghee hide
Rattle as you try to find that left over pie
Sandwiched between two random bottles
Shows up a packet of butterscotch
Who put that in there? You could angrily ask
For all your seething, mom would laugh
Parented is as tough to be in, you think
Living with parents is an even tougher task
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