I am washing my dishes considering if the cat I can see
out of my kitchen window is the usual cat or
if it’s a new cat.
I am considering the enormity of the death of the usual cat
and feel sad for the man who lives alone
apart from his cat.
I am smelling the apple green liquid it’s thick texture and
comforting smell remind me of a time
when washing dishes
Was a fight between me and my parents and accusations
and slamming doors were something to
be sulked behind.
I am remembering the tired sighs and kitchen smells of my mother
as she negotiated life
and balanced tempers.
I am running the tap hot and challenge myself to bear the heat
before succumbing to cooling water, the plates are
drying on the rack.
I am wondering why these platters belong to me,
all of them odd, some patterned, some plain,
steam rising from them.
Was I so scared of conformity that my utensils show
my mismatched life? Life that I consider once again as
I wash my dishes.