1 New Poem

Dishes

I used to wash plates

at the restaurant

my high school crush’s

grandparents owned, just

off the main street

in a little town with a

waterfront boardwalk

and a high school

on either side.

I’d scrape the leftovers into

a big plastic trash bin,

line cups, glasses, bowls

up against each other,

let the steam come

up over me, and wait.

Watching waiters bustle,

through narrow kitchen bends,

watching rain fall through back alley gutters,

watching summers come to an end.

I used to wash cutlery

in the sink of an apartment

that tilted to one side,

so that water would run

at odd angles, staining the

chipped countertops, pooling

underneath my roommate’s ashtray,

ruining his Zip papers.

Watching days trace into mist,

watching the in-out procession of friends,

watching absurd relationships take flight from couches,

watching dreams come into being.

I wash the glasses while

looking through a window

that turns to the sunny side

of the street, ringed by

houseplant leaves and the

Simpsons ornament my

wife bought two Christmases ago.

I listen for the sound of

pattering dog paws, as

I soak my hands in sudwater,

splendor of the suburb sunset

falling on the kitchen mat

at my feet.

Watching children play on concrete,

watching for a day’s relief in eyes,

watching the time wind rush by us

watching my heart's love wound.