Dishes

A tower of metal and glass
Garnished with last night's feast;
Water and suds,
Scour and scrub,
But the pile is never decreased.

I work the pile left to right
Almost like an automaton,
No piles shrink,
Despite work in the sink--
The chore goes on and on.

Years flow by, rooted at the basin
Dreams, hopes, circle the drain.
Grease skims water,
Fingers pucker,
The unwashed tower remains.

Perchance a day arrives
Where all is washed and dried,
But sitting down,
I look around,
To see my eyes have lied.

Clanging drowns out thought,
Water leeches laughter.
I am not whole;
I have no soul,
And no one to see me shatter.