It’s true, the microwave is sticky. Sticky on the insides, sticky when the door opens.

And there’s hair on the kitchen cupboards, hair adhered to grease. Animal hair, but it doesn’t belong there.

And mold on the insides of the Tupperware lid, more sticky things in the fridge.

And the oven, there’s the oven.

The fins on the underside of the fridge, the crumb tray on the toaster.

Mustard caked onto the squeeze spout turning brown.

Mandarin oranges with beards white as mine.

The orange juice has separated, the peas are frozen in a knobby clump.

The goose fat hasn’t changed a bit.

I sometimes get down on my hands and knees as if to pray but it’s to clean.

To scrub off the impurities, to clean my soul.

And it is a kind of worship, a penance, to all we cannot remove but must accept.

To all we could choose to see, and would be so much happier if we didn’t.

Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: humor, poem