Dating : Porcelain

There is a well-wrung metaphor
for every life catastrophe.
I plunge my hands into ice-hot water,
dread the drudge toil of cleaning my messes.

Soap. Sponge. Dish. Drainer.
Little symphony of domestic near-misses.
Wet hair tie onto limp chaff tresses,
curdled milk and mushed peas
slide into wet abyss.

There is nothing romantic about washing.
No poetry in the slick crisping of fingers
left in bubbles too long, the slide and crinkle
of wrists flicking to reach glass bottoms
slimy as the sea. Just the mechanics of an empty night
licked by mocking horn moon, a phone unringing,
bed corners crimped and bare.