She stands at the enamel dishpan
prune hands in warm water
little robot of wash rinse stack
looks out the window
as clouds scud from the west
thinks, I hope it doesn’t rain.
Dad’s uptight enough,
smells this morning’s cookies fresh from the oven
thinks about mixing them
and what’s in the cupboard …
in a concoxious experiment
of baking soda, vinegar
green coloring, salt
and reaching for the corn starch
she’s Mom-caught in the act.
“What are you doing?
Water’s cold, soap’s dead!
No wonder dishes take you
© 2013 Violet Nesdoly
This is a memory poem. I grew up in a large family, the oldest of nine kids. Washing dishes was a big by-hand job that took forever anyway. Might as well make it fun with a little scientific diversion. Did any of you do stuff like that?
This post is linked to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Betsy H. at Teaching Young Writers.