And To Think it All Started with Doing the Dishes
Washing dishes was my favorite chore;
the soap and hot water warmed me to the core.
I would sit there all night and scrub all clean
any dishes I could find till they were all shiny sheen.
I poured soap in the sink, turned the water on high
and then for a moment, I rested my eyes.
Then the moment was over and to my surprise
the bubbles stretched outwards and up toward the sky.
For a moment I panicked; the room was a mess!
I just wanted to do dishes, no more and no less!
Then the thought dawned that made my heart sing:
bubbles were just soap, and soap cleaned things.
So I found my smile and my eyes grew bright,
and I tossed the bubbles everywhere in sight.
they covered the carpet, and clung to the walls
but i was not in trouble-- and that was best of all!
My neighbors came over to see what was the deal.
Their eyes grew wide, and they started to squeal.
So I made a [clean]mess and two new friends--
and that is how it all began.
Room grew to house, and house grew to home--
take it or leave it, but it was second to none.
Friends laughed and cried and got pretty scared too
within the sacred walls of Hruby two-zero-two.
It's where johnny and i sat cross-legged on the floor,
where I shared my day, my heart, and more.
Where all were welcome and all could stay
for a month, for a week, for the night, or a day.
Where Niki and i became best friends true,
sharing our secrets and latest news.
It's where i spilled to Miss Kalee, all of my tears
and grew to trust her to chase away fears.
Where i learned to stitch teddy's, to fix broken thumbs,
and pulling all-nighters too often was dumb.
Where I did my first pull-up and baked my first cake
and learned unattended microwaves are a big mistake.
So what do you mean, "Am i ready to go?"
I mean, my bags are all packed, but I'm not sure I know
how to leave behind the memories of the first place
I took care of my own, just a tiny 'me' space.
So I'll close the door and hold the key
in my palm for a second longer than really need be,
just to know it was here, remember it was real,
and will live in my heart until memory steals.
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.