poetry

Washing the Dishes.

 

black and white blur cigar cigarette

A soapy ceramic serving dish
struck the low corner of the wall;

she never liked Toile curtains,
she never liked the look
her father-in-law gave her,
she never liked her blonde dye job,
or the way her husband wants her
to just lay there—

the shards were swept up
after two bitter cigarettes,
and a bit of pillow screaming.

© Nancy Botta, 2018

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3 thoughts on “Washing the Dishes.

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