Washing the dishes because I want to eat.
The rest I wash because I want to be neat.
You would scoff at the rhyme, I think, but
you have been gone so long. Longer than
these dishes have been in the sink, I think.
In this one, there was fruit, in that one,
pink meat. I wash the sugar bowl as well,
no need for it now that you have been gone
so long and I take my coffee black, I think.
So long, I said to you, and you turned to me
with a face full of glass. Why are the lines in
your poems suddenly so long, you asked;
so long, I said again, as the glass slips out of
my soapy hands and clinks down through the
water toward the bottom of the sink. No longer
hungry, I dry my hands. I think.

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