It took several
hours. There were spaces in the cookware of which no one was aware, save the
poet. The soft downturn of the ladle handle soared and fell like the epic point
guard’s final jump-shot as the seconds die away…. Water turned from periods to
semi-colons and, finally, ellipses. If the sponge was wrung-out in the perfect
combination of soap and water, the poet erupted into mirthful glee. Otherwise,
tears. The poet shooed his wife away from the dirty dishes like an
Anthropologist hoarding the dirty femur of Java Man, then stared out the window
at the muddy March snow. He did not love the dishes; merely cherished them as a
measure of time’s elapse, a graceful collapse. Another chop gone by. The final
swallow, the final tine, an expulsion of methane. As the last dish hit the rack
the poet pondered the finality of one more meal; this is all before dessert and
coffee were even served. As always, it took a lifetime.
This article appears in Mar 10-16, 2004.
