{Poetry...ish} A Dish

A DISH

She's been working away all day,
Salad, cookies, cornbread, chili,
A climbing mountain of disarray,
Dishes piled high, willy-nilly.

Dirty, used, piled, cast off,
Forgotten in the hurry of meal preparation.
Spatulas, measuring spoons, forks,
Left with the promising exclamation,
"I'll get back to those later."

The whole counter covered,
Pieces of cheese drying on the grater,
Batter hardening, undiscovered.
Dry, crusty monsters to find sooner-or-later.

The meal is prepared,
Consumed in a speedy style,
The food is shared,
When the girl turns and sees the horrible pile.

On the left side of the sink,
She can't avoid looking there anymore,
The counter filled to brink,
A long, endless chore.

She begins, dejected, on the task ahead,
Possible hours of never-ending scrubbing,
Hands prune-wrinkled and sun-burnt red,
Scraping, rinsing, and rubbing.

And finally, every dish is dried,
Every piece is cleaned up,
She sits down with pride,
And sees one more measuring cup.



Let's just say, poetry isn't my forte...from where poetry is, you can't even see my forte. But, I wrote this, and I will share it, even if it's an embarrassing piece of work with uneven rhythm...or complete lack of rhythm. Despite my lack of skill with poetry, this still happens EVERY TIME I do dishes. It is unavoidable. And I've gotten to  the point where I see that last dish and just sorta laugh in a half-crazed manner. So, I share this for the sake of all you fellow dishwashers out there! Can you sympathize? Do dishes often seem like an endless mountain? Know that you are not alone. I, too, dread that terrible pile. (Sometimes if you ignore it long enough, your mom will just do it. Mom's are cool like that.)