Nested spoons will go right back for the next libation,
which waits its turn while I dole warm dishes to their proper cabinets.
Today a glutinous rear-guard egg splotch hangs on,
the fellow yellows of its rind and my gloves meeting for the conclusive scour.
Though I check each load when I am privileged to be present
I never contest the placements, no matter how deranged—
the plastic flotsam thrust over bacchanalian tumblers
or thrust into the bottom rack where they aren’t supposed to go.
I only separate the glazed pottery that must be guarded from each other’s clatter.
One dish I rescue for myself every time,
loath to lose the last red bowl
from the multicolored set of four, the kind found at roadside flea markets.
A surface I can share with the grandmother who harbored all four in a forgotten pantry.
Andy Oram
October 17, 2025
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