Dirty Dishes

Sometimes the gunky cheese board

and oily salad bowl

[can]

remain in the sink

alongside the soaking fry pan

because a wild

dream-filled sleep

seems the better

devotion.

 

Sometimes the empty quiche plate

and crumb-filled cutting board

[can]

join the pile

because a breakfast

picnic of reheated leftovers

seems imperative —

down Land’s End, overlooking

Cape Porpoise harbor

 

sitting on the tailgate of

a vintage F-150 pickup;

dog whining for handouts,

thermos of coffee steaming

into the air.

 

Sometimes the soapy sponge

and lemon-scented water

[can]

glide across the cheeseboard and fry pan

a meditation, not obligation, because

fantastical night capers linger

in your aura,

and you are full

of seagull cry and salt wind.

Your blood now ripples

of shoreline over stone,

and the sun shines out of your eyes.

 

© 2021 Jennifer Comeau