Journal Fifty-Three Bags to Pack

Josh and Evie left for New York this evening on their comication (combo convention and vacation), so now I can finally stretch out and cook meals for one. This past week has been a lot of driving back and forth to office stores and office buildings. Anyway, I think the comic looks great, due in no small part, I am sure, to last minute pressure and long, sleepless nights.

That said, I didn't get to cook much last week. It was busy for all of us, so I didn't do the dishes a lot (meaning not once). I did them all today though, every last one. This is what I found:

Kitchen Alchemy

I pull down the dishwasher door
and I'm amazed
by the way I've loaded all these dishes.
It looks like a yard sale.
I pick up a bubbled, amber glass
and think with a raised eyebrow,
"I drink from this?"

The silverware basket alternates
up, down, up, up, down
with forks and spoons, a video game code
in the very wording of its arrangement.
"I went to art school,"
I whisper into a Garfield mug,
"and this is the composition I come up?"
I should probably return
my BFA to KCAI ASAP.

It's becoming a joke I make
whenever I do something wrong,
whenever I forget to do something right.
Like having learned how to weave
should help me remember the dry cleaning,
or at the very least,
keep me from locking myself
out of my duplex in the middle of the night.

I decide to put the dishes away later,
after I've had time
to settle from the shock of my belongings:
all the rainbowed plastic, the bent forks,
and the crunchy lids to containers
I've been using to catch drips
under the sink.

I open that door, discover a potions lab
of old solvents and cleaners.
I take out a bottle of something green,
hold it to the light, try to recall
what it does, exactly.
Failing that, I spray a bit on the counter
and it bubbles for a solid minute
like cartoon acid
eating anything in its frothy path.

I wipe it away
and here in all the mess
is one patch
with which to see my reflection
completely.