Sunday, June 28, 2015

Washing Dishes

(I was about to throw away an old notebook and found this poem in it. I have no idea when I wrote it.)


I start the dishwasher
during the Yankees game
after she goes to bed.

It is stainless steel
and smarter than me--
the dishwasher, I mean.
She is flesh and blood
and also smarter than me.
What a quandary--
a woman
and a kitchen appliance
both smarter than me.

I empty it after the game (win or lose),
late in the night sometimes,
especially when they play
on the West Coast.

Glasses in the cubbard,
as well as bowls and plates
and cooking dishes
(all in different cubbards)
>like base runners.

Cups on the hangers.
Implements, forks, spoons,
all where they belong.
>like relief pitchers.

Wiped counters and
water turned off,
it's almost over.
>like the ninth inning.

Hang up the rags and
squeeze out the sponge...
now I can sleep,
having done what
I do
to make myself
(so useless in so many ways)
for her.

>Home run. Walk off.


No comments:

Post a Comment

Blog Archive

About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.