I Used To Complain About Dirty Dishes (Poem)

I used to complain about dirty dishes.
Now, I scrub every morsel with thanks and glee.
For, in the February of ’21, t’was the wishes,
of most Texans, that a simple hot meal is what they could see.

Or, it was for the basic trickle to boil
humble rice, oatmeal, or an egg.
We’d hoped seeing our breaths, while inside, meant food wouldn’t spoil —
the very food normally dirtying our dishes, for which we don’t have to normally beg.

I soon learned to cherish soaking dirty plates,
when even the modest means of hot water aren’t around, to let warm suds radiate.
The jar of Planter’s I ate
was purchased, casually, 2 years prior, as a meager snack food for a date.

I didn’t have to plead for it, borrow, nor steal.
I bought it without a 2nd thought, not seeing it as a protein prize.
What to me was merely a “bird food” meal
was the ticket to being full the next 12 hours, in someone else’s eyes.

They’re not inside seeing breath; they’re outside in the responsible cold.
They don’t see year ‘19’s olives as old.
They wouldn’t see them as run-of-the-mill, simple, green spheroids I’ve just bowled.
To them, such salty plumpness would be greater than gold.
I, too, bought them on a careless whim at a Wal-Mart just because the price was rolled.

So, glory to the stubborn, simmer-fused, stuck-on, and solidified sausage sauce.
Having to sponge and rinse it weekly means, exceedingly, we’re blessed.
Mother Nature reminding me of who’s really Boss
made me remember who hasn’t even the sink for dirty dishes to rest.

From the Soul,