A Familial Tradition: Dishes


The sponge scrubs the surface
of the plate, scrubs grime,
rhythmically back and forth
in time to the music
playing through the speakers
in the kitchen, round and round,
back and forth, round and round,

Suds fade into foamy water
and I shake off the excess drops,
putting it aside to dry, grab a cup,
the sponge moves
around the glass.

Leftover food leaves the dishes
just like I am leaving too,
another world a moment away while
little brother takes the sponge,
scrubs the surface of the plate.


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