Dirty Dishes

While the dishes are stewing in the sink, I look out the window to see the ditch, the fence, and the tail end of a sunset. Twelve cups on the table, thirteen on the counters, and three more on the stovetop; there's none left in the cupboard--the last was used yesterday evening. Kids run laughing past, playing tag, as young as when I first arrived here. I wish you were standing with me next to this double sink-- I would do the scrubbing, you would rinse them clean, and we would chat together. I saw a man carry his child up to this window, point inside and say, "I want you never to grow up to be just like this person living here." His kids later threw cherry tomatoes at our back porch, during that same summer. I cleaned it up with a few napkins as they stared at me, and while I was quiet, they whispered to each other. I felt nothing inside, and had nothing to say to myself, except this: I'd better keep the curtains closed from now on, lest they see me.