I know you of course –
your familiar swamp of grease
and indignity,
knives and spoons scattered
like mutilated limbs
across a battlefield
of gravy-streaked plates
and wounded china.
After the civilities
of supper, I’ve heard the Huns
of cutlery (who hasn’t?) unleashing
their true selves –
jostle,
raid, ravish,
slump.
And I recognise you,
just another kitchen sink
dreaming
of foam and equanimity.
For now, your dreams smell of detergent
and mine of love.
It could be enough.