A Poem from a couple of months ago

Dirty dishes

I hear the engines roaring downstairs.

They do every now and again.

The stale air lifts the smell of gasoline

through these shy windows—the Burks, they must be off again.

I swirl the last of my cereal into the sea of sugary milk

a new addition to my pile of dirty dishes 

and coffee-laced mugs.

The room seems small now       and rather grey

The couches,

dusty old things. Their color faded, fuzz.

If I wanted to I could probably dig up a couple of things;

knick-knacks and photo frames,     

a crumpled up tissue or two.

But I’d rather just look out at the streets.

The women with their barking dogs and helpless babes,

and the occasional jeep pulling into the raucous garage.

If I wanted to, I could go upstairs and

rest these blank eyes,

but I fear there would be no dream awaiting me.

So all I can do is sit here at this tea stained table

and remember how you hated when I didn’t do the dishes.