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.

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