Meat Loaf

by Linda Knaus & Kenn Nesbitt
My mother made a meat loaf,
but I think she made it wrong.
It could be that she cooked it
just a little bit too long.

She pulled it from the oven,
and we all began to choke.
The meat loaf was on fire,
and the kitchen filled with smoke.

The smoke detectors squealed
from all the flaming meat loaf haze.
My father used his drink
to try extinguishing the blaze.

Mom shrieked and dropped the meat loaf;
it exploded with a boom
and splattered blackened globs on
every surface in the room.

The dog passed out. The kitten hid.
My brother screamed and fled.
The baby ate a gobbet
sticking to her head.

My father started yelling,
and my sister went berserk.
But I kept cool and said, “At least
our smoke detectors work.”

Text © Linda Knaus & Kenn Nesbitt reprinted from Rolling in the Aisles, published by Meadowbrook Press. Illustration © Stephen Carpenter. Any copying or use of this poem or illustration without consent is unlawful.

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