3 result(s) for Washing Pots And Pans After Use.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
Night Shift at the Sink
The day has cooled to crust and ember,
and bowls still hold the sauce's sheen.
I turn the tap, let water fall
where steam once rose in silver lean.
The skillet, black with evening's heat,
will yield its scars to soap and sponge;
the copper pot, once bright and proud,
now waits in suds for its plunge.
I stack them tall in quiet rows,
each lid returned to where it lies,
the saucepan nested in the pot,
like sleeping things with patient eyes.
They wait for dawn, for flame and oil,
for onions hissing, bread to brown,
and I, who scrubbed them clean at night,
am only ready to set them down.
So sleep, my pans, in ordered stacks,
your dull tomorrow shining bright;
the meal you'll make is still a dream,
and I have kept your garden light.
Evening Dishes
Sponge glides across the dented saucepan,
foam blooming white like early snow,
the tap runs warm against my knuckles,
and grease lets go, reluctantly, slow.
A skillet, black with last night's onions,
yields to the steel wool's patient bite;
I scrub the ghosts of supper's laughter
from ridges, rims, and handles tight.
The rack fills up with dripping metal,
each piece a small, unspoken vow:
to gleam again for breakfast eggs,
to hold the stew, the bread, the cow's
sweet milk and all the daily bounty.
The basin drains with a gurgling sigh,
and in the window's amber reflection,
my hands are wrinkled, and I am spry.
The Skillet's Stubborn Shine
The skillet hisses, still aglow,
With butter gone to amber crust,
And every stubborn, sticky row
Clings fast to iron, grim and robust.
I fill the sink with steaming rain,
A squeeze of soap, a bubbling sigh,
Then scrub in circles, hard again,
As crumbs and grease go drifting by.
The steel wool bites, the residue yields,
A flake, a film, a lingering stain,
Until the iron, bare, reveals
The dull gray gleam beneath the grain.
So here's the quiet, humble task,
No grand reward, no audience cheers,
Yet every pan I rinse and bask
In order drawn from kitchen years.
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