Dishwasher

So I told the cream colored dishwasher from the eighties that was slumped in the corner of my kitchen,

“I know how you feel...

I know how it feels to put those who are fragile inside of you,

Hoping to see them sparkle like they're brand new again;

Working until sweat turns into steam ,

Just to make them feel clean,

Then be forced to watch from across the room,

As pigs smear blood all over plates,

Using forks like shovels and knives like grovels.

If only they would take a good long look in a spoon and see how small they are,

See how upside down and contorted they are,

But their eyes are blocked by chipmunk cheeks.

It's torture,

To just watch,

Day after day,

Cleaning up the mess they've made .

Eventually it becomes impossible not to shake.

At first with anger.

Maybe your vibrations will be heard,

And they'll change,

Realize how hard you're working to undo the pain.

Then with just weariness,

You start leaking,

Because you just can't keep it together anymore.

There are some things that just won't be cleaned,

No matter how many times you wash them,

Like that tarnished silver spoon that no one took the time to polish,

Like the cutting board that took one too many slits to the wrist

And the blood was too much to wash away any more.

There are too many that still need saving to worry about the ones we lost,

But you do it anyway.

Yeah, I know how you feel.”