The metallic scraping of the pot against sink
disperses the stale,
overwhelming stillness for a brief moment.
Rinsed of light bubbles, the pot leaks onto the plate.
Reaching for the drain,
an overly wrinkled hand finds the submerged fork.
How is it that the fork could have been overlooked?
One plate and one glass—
the pattern is neither new nor unfamiliar.
The fork escapes downward into oily, orange suds.
The clang dying at once.
Then, a tear tries to remove the old tarnish spot.
Swollen and numb, fingers search for a dry rag.
Suppressed tears for past
gatherings and idle chat soak through the soiled cloth.
[Check out other original poems here.]