Homestyle Love

The dishwasher is hard.

If you ask me, the plastic wiry designs aren’t crafted to hold anything right.

No reasonable dishes can stand up tight.

No plastic kids cups can stop falling.

And flipping.

And filling

With water, residue and grime.

I don’t understand what I’m “blocking,” with this cutting board.

I don’t know why this “goes on top.”

I believe straws should get clean.

Water should straw itself right through the hole.

Because of the dishwasher, I know that you love me.

I will lose my mind if folded laundry rests neatly on the bed where I sleep,

A symbolic barricade to rest.

A literal obstruction of justly earned sleep.

My cup overfloweth that you did the wash.

That you right-side-outed tiny pants and onesies.

That you fold towels in a way that I simply cannot master.

Thank you.

Thank you.

And please don’t place your beauties where I sleep.

Because of clean laundry, returned kindly to the floor, I know that you love me.

Speaking of clothes, I know I wear yours.

I wear your socks.

A lot.

And sin of all sins, I don’t give a flying baby’s dipe if they match.

Your unmatched socks rest in a small pile, speckled with color and print.

My feet stand beside them, gloriously Bomba’ed with one foot of pink toes and one foot of bright yellow.

Your feet grounded beside me- plaid.

Because of socks. I know that you love me.

The internet. DZ, who is in charge?!?

I ask you twice a week.

Wires? Ok. Who put them down there?

And who told them to dig and lay?

And who is the boss of it?

No who?

Can it break?

Can someone turn it off?

No. Not Google.

The internet.

Who works for the internet?

I know I just asked you.

I know you showed me a YouTube video.

It was insufficient.

Who owns it? Yes- who owns the internet?

Because of my brain, I know that you love me.

You never love me less.

You always love me more.

More is more is more is more.

Love you too.

Photo Credit: Tracey Hocking