dish cleaning brush in sink

While Reaching for the Sponge

While reaching for the sponge,
the remains of last night
caked on the patiently waiting dishes,
evidence of our obligatory evening
with Rose and David
who arrived with smiles drawn on.

Small talk was served
with a knowing disregard for the doomed union of our guests.
We’d tasted their narrative before
which now lay before me
parched and lifeless on their salad plates,
the farmer’s care no help to them
as the conversation skirted their heartbreak
with talks of some HBO show with what’s-his-name
and that new restaurant on 6th street,
Casa something…

And then the lull,
an interval that could’ve revealed pain
but instead became
a welcome morsel of peace.

I sneak a look at you,
your focus on the chicken swimming in tomatoes and garlic,
your favorite,
my focus
your hair,
just washed and blown dry by that baroque piece of
industrial ingenuity you bought on Amazon.

Then you look up at me
A curl falls just so, brushing against your cheek
as if for maximum effect
and your smile
free from the goings on,
perhaps born from the notion
that sometimes life is good for no reason at all.

The water turns hot
burning the shit out of that paper cut I got this morning
and I drop the sponge into last night
wondering why you never mentioned we don’t have any dish soap left.