I sweep the sponge toward the sink to a serenade of tings and plops,
As every manner of crumb and smidgen, heretofore unseen, hit stainless steel.
The dishcloth glides over the sleek and shiny surface,
Catching here and there on spots of inconspicuous residue.
What could that be, I ask in hushed tones, and from where did it come?
And whence this puddle in which I have, unheeding, laid down my mail?
Perhaps some errant condensation from my glass of chilled nectar
That lies in aqueous wait, unnoticed by the mortal lens.
And there, a russet splash, adding to the variegated pattern of my stone.
Gone with a swipe, a lonely remnant of my goblet of glorious Merlot,
As are the droplets of delicious marinara left too long to simmer
On the stove, bubbling and adding its color to the festive pattern.
Alas, there is the kibble that I heard but could not see escape the bowl,
That tiny morsel of feline sustenance that bounced away
To make its escape both from its fate and my perfunctory hunt.
And lo the twist tie I could not find to seal my bag of bread, reclaimed.
I thought life with you would be so carefree. No slave to every spot
As in days gone by, a yellow expanse tormenting with each speck.
No. You call to me like a siren, taunting me with the hidden mysteries
Of what could be fermenting on your delicious, shiny, carapace.
