There is a missile in my kitchen

There is a missile in my kitchen,
or so I’ve been told;
and it’s taking up all the room.
Now there’s no place for a table,
or a chair, or a stove,
but I hear things may change very soon.

I don’t know how it came to be here.
It is forbidden and ill-advised.
I suppose it slipped in quietly
under some kind of sly disguise.

I have invited in visitors.
I have let in the law.
And each one of them complains
that my kitchen is too small.

There is a missile in my kitchen.
My neighbor had one too;
before a different missile
changed his family’s point of view.

So I sit where there is no chair,
at no table and drink my tea,
in this kitchen that has no room
for a table, a chair, or me. 

At night I listen
to the radio and the bombs
and when it gets too loud
I turn the radio down.

There is a missile in my kitchen,
or so I’ve been told.
And it makes all the difference;
as all the difference grows.