“in our sleep, the mutual core"

Things begin to stick, unrecognizable like food on the supper dishes from the first of the week. In

these gelatin thoughts I manage to fill the sink with hot water, bathe in the bubbles of ideas. And as I

watch them pop and drain from the stainless day of darkness, there you are. Scrubbed clean and eager

to see who I am. You yourself have dishes to do, pots to scour. Your house is in order except 

for the extra lodger to deal with. His dishes, my dishes, might never come clean.

Oh, the intention is sparkling but the stew is fused to the bowl and will not release the moment 

to dry and be put in the cupboard for the next meal, the dirty mismatched knives and forks 

left on the table.