Your casserole dish takes the longest:it has some baked-in crust from when youcooked chicken last night. Washing itallows me to think about this poem’s titleand the first few lines. Now that I’vewritten them down, I’ve forgotten the rest.
While scraping at something with my finger-nail, I catch myself wondering again whetheryou’ll thank me for washing your dishes.I realize that this would defeat the pointof my gesture, that this has destroyedall good thoughts I’ve had about saying
“I’m sorry.” This, this is the reason whyI am always apologizing: because I nevermean it, because there is always, in someattic, a thought roaming that says, insists:
“I’ve done nothing wrong, and I deserveall I can take, and more than that.“