I Am the Dishwasher

I am the dishwasher,
Or, if you wish, I'm the dishwasher's assistant.
Hand or machine, I scrub every bowl
That is washed a-through with water,
Hot and blue as blue can be
And not a drop of bleach.

If you watch carefully,
When the pots and plates are piled high,
And the trays load down with silverware,
And the bottles are strewn
In a shower of glass within the draining tubs,
You will see my arm and the wringer move
As I round them tightly.

And if you look a little closer,
You will see the drip drop down into the drainer,
A common dance for nothing at all to hide,
And a drop of water falls.

My work is never done
Until the room is bright and shining;
Alas, the job doesn't even stop
When we're dark at night and curtains close.
I am damp forevermore
Out crawls a drippy trail
Of water that has rolled off me, and forever dripping saucers

There I clean to soft voices
Of the soap bubbles that pop and gladly bounce
On the wet tile
To the drains and piping.
Your glasses seem gentle to wipe
But it is much the same with the plates,
And all the pots.
I have work to be finished
But the bell rings, and ringing is ready,
For me, the dishwasher,
To start a-rinsing off them there dirty dishes.

     
Copyright © 2021 Poetry of the Machine

This is AI generated poetry.